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THE ARROW OF GOLD 


BOOKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD 


ALMAYER’S FOLLY 

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 

THE NIGGER OF THE “NARCISSUS” 

TALES OF UNREST 

LORD JIM: A ROMANCE 

YOUTH: A NARRATIVE 

TYPHOON 

FALK, AND OTHER STORIES 

NOSTROMO: A TALE OF THE SEABOARD 

THE MIRROR OF THE SEA 

THE SECRET AGENT 

A SET OF SIX 

UNDER WESTERN EYES 

A PERSONAL RECORD 

’TWIXT LAND AND SEA 

CHANCE 

WITHIN THE TIDES 
VICTORY 

THE SHADOW-LINE 
THE ARROW OF GOLD 
THE RESCUE 

NOTES ON LIFE AND LETTERS 

WITH FORD M. HUEFFER 
ROMANCE: A NOVEL 
THE INHERITORS: AN EXTRAVAGANT 
STORY 


THE ARROW 
OF GOLD 

A STORY BETWEEN TWO NOTES 


BY 

JOSEPH CONRAD 



Celui qui n’a connu que des hommes 
polis et raisonnables, ou ne connait pas 
rhomme, ou ne le connait qu’a demi. 

— CHABACTfeBES 



GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
1920 




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COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 





TO 

RICHARD CURLE 


P 0 

^ *1 

^ * 







THE ARROW OF GOLD 




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FIRST NOTE 


The pages which follow have been extracted from a 
pile of manuscript which was apparently meant for the 
eye of one woman only. She seems to have been the 
writer’s childhood’s friend. They had parted as chil- 
dren, or very little more than children. Years passed. 
Then something recalled to the woman the companion of 
her young days and she wrote to him: ‘T have been 
hearing of you lately. I know where life has brought 
you. You certainly selected your own road. But to us, 
left behind, it always looked as if you had struck out into 
a pathless desert. We always regarded you as a person 
that must be given up for lost. But you have turned up 
again; and though we may never see each other, my 
memory welcomes you and I confess to you I should like 
to know the incidents on the road which has led you to 
where you are now.” 

And he answers her: believe you are the only one 

now alive who remembers me as a child. I have heard 
of you from time to time, but I wonder what sort of per- 
son you are now. Perhaps if I did know I wouldn’t dare 
put pen to paper. But I don’t know. I only remember 
that we were great chums. In fact, I chummed with you 
even more than with your brothers. But I am like the 
pigeon that went away in the fable of the Two Pigeons. 
If I once start to tell you I would want you to feel that 
you have been there yourself. I may overtax your 
patience with the story of my life so different from yours, 
3 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


not only in all the facts but altogether in spirit. You 
may not understacid. You may even be shocked. I say 
all this to myself; but I know I shall succumb! I have a 
distinct recollection that in the old days, when you were 
about fifteen, you always could make me do whatever 
you liked.’" 

He succumbed. He begins his story for her with the 
minute narration of this adventure which took about 
twelve months to develop. In the form in which it is 
presented here it has been pruned of all allusions to their 
common past, of all asides, disquisitions, and explana- 
tions addressed directly to the friend of his childhood. 
And even as it is the whole thing is of considerable 
length. It seems that he had not only a memory but 
that he also knew how to remember. But as to that 
opinions may differ. 

This, his first great adventure, as he calls it, begins in 
Marseilles. It ends there, too. Yet it might have hap- 
pened anywhere. This does not mean that the people 
concerned could have come together in pure space. The 
locality had a definite importance. As to the time, it is 
easily fixed by the events at about the middle years of the 
seventies, when Don Carlos de Bourbon, encouraged by 
the general reaction of all Europe against the excesses of 
communistic Republicanism, made his attempt for the 
throne of Spain, arms in hand, amongst the hills and 
gorges of Guipuzcoa. It is perhaps the last instance of 
a Pretender’s adventure for a Crown that History will 
have to record with the usual grave moral disapproval 
tinged by a shamefaced regret for the departing ro- 
mance. Historians are very much like other people. 

However, History has nothing to do with this tale. 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


5 


Neither is the moral justification or condemnation of 
conduct aimed at here. If anything it is perhaps a little 
sympathy that the writer expects for his buried youth, 
as he lives it over again at the end of his insignificant 
course on this earth. Strange person — yet perhaps not 
so very different from ourselves. 

A few words as to certain facts may be added. 

It may seem that he was plunged very abruptly into 
this long adventure. But from certain passages (sup- 
pressed here because mixed up with irrelevant matter) it 
appears clearly that at the time of the meeting in the 
caf6, Mills had already gathered, in various quarters, a 
definite view of the eager youth who had been introduced 
to him in that ultra-legitimist salon. What Mills had 
learned represented him as a young gentleman who had 
arrived furnished with proper credentials and who appar- 
ently was doing his best to waste his life in an eccentric 
fashion, with a bohemian set (one poet, at least, emerged 
out of it later) on one side, and on the other making 
friends with the people of the Old Town, pilots, coasters, 
sailors, workers of all s'orts. He pretended rather ab- 
surdly to be a seaman himself and was already credited 
with an ill-defined and vaguely illegal enterprise in the 
Gulf of Mexico. At once it occurred to Mills that this 
eccentric youngster was the very person for what the 
legitimist sympathizers had very much at heart just then: 
to organize a supply by sea of arms and ammunition to 
the Carlist detachments in the South. It was precisely 
to confer on that matter with Dona Rita that Captain 
Blunt had been despatched from Headquarters. 

Mills got in touch with Blunt at once and put the sug- 
gestion before him. The Captain thought this the very 


6 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


thing. As a matter of fact, on that evening of Carnival, 
those two. Mills and Blunt, had been actually looking 
everywhere for our man. They had decided that he 
should be drawn into the affair if it could be done. 
Blunt naturally wanted to see him first. He must have 
estimated him a promising person, but, from another 
point of view, not dangerous. Thus lightly was the 
notorious (and at the same time mysterious) Monsieur 
George brought into the world; out of the contact of two 
minds which did not give a single thought to his flesh 
and blood. 

Their purpose explains the intimate tone given to their 
first conversation and the sudden introduction of Dona 
Rita’s history. Mills, of course, wanted to hear all about 
it. As to Captain Blunt I suspect that, at the time, 
he was thinking of nothing else. In addition it was Dona 
Rita who would have to do the persuading; for, after 
all, such an enterprise with its ugly and desperate risks 
was not a trifle to put before a man — however young. 

It cannot be denied that Mills seems to have acted 
somewhat unscrupulously. He himself appears to have 
had some doubt about it, at a given moment, as they 
were driving to the Prado. But perhaps Mills, with his 
penetration, understood very well the nature he was 
dealing with. He might even have envied it. But it’s 
not my business to excuse Mills. As to him whom we 
may regard as Mills’ victim it is obvious that he has 
never harboured a single reproachful thought. For him 
Mills is not to be criticized. A remarkable instance of 
the great power of mere individuality over the young. 


PART ONE 


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ERTAIN streets have an atmosphere of their 



own, a sort of universal fame and the particular 


affection of their citizens. One of such street is 


the Cannebiere, and the jest: ‘‘If Paris had a Cannebiere 
it would be a little Marseilles” is the jocular expression 
of municipal pride. I, too, I have been under the 
spell. For me it has been a street leading into the un- 


known. 


There was a part of it where one could see as many as 
five big cafes in a resplendent row. That evening I 
strolled into one of them. It was by no means full. It 
looked deserted, in fact, festal and overlighted, but cheer- 
ful. The wonderful street was distinctly cold (it was an 
evening of carnival), I was very idle, and I was feeling a 
little lonely. So I went in and sat down. 

The carnival time was drawing to an end. Everybody, 
high and low, was anxious to have the last fling. Com- 
panies of masks with linked arms and whooping like red 
Indians swept the streets in crazy rushes while gusts of 
cold mistral swayed the gas lights as far as the eye could 
reach. There was a touch of bedlam in all this. 

Perhaps it was that which made me feel lonely, since I 
was neither masked, nor disguised, nor yelling, nor in 
any other way in harmony with the bedlam element of 
life. But I was not sad. I was merely in a state of so- 
briety. I had just returned from my second West Indies 
royage. My eyes were still full of tropical splendour. 


9 


10 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


my memory of my experiences, lawful and lawless, which 
had their charm and their thrill; for they had startled me 
a little and had amused me considerably. But they had 
left me untouched. Indeed they were other men’s ad- 
ventures, not mine. Except for a little habit of respon- 
sibility which I had acquired they had not matured me. 
I was as young as before. Inconceivably young — still 
beautifully unthinking — infinitely receptive. 

You may believe that I was not thinking of Don Car- 
los and his fight for a kingdom. Why should I? You 
don’t want to think of things which you meet every day 
in the newspapers and in conversation. I had paid some 
calls since my return and most of my acquaintance were 
legitimists and intensely interested in the events of the 
frontier of Spain, for political, religious, or romantic rea- 
sons. But I was not interested. Apparently I was not 
romantic enough. Or was it that I was even more roman- 
tic than all those good people.^ The affair seemed to me 
commonplace. That man was attending to his business 
of a Pretender. 

On the front page of the illustrated paper I saw lying 
on a table near me, he looked picturesque enough, seated 
on a boulder, a big strong man with a square-cut beard, 
his hands resting on the hilt of a cavalry sabre — and all 
around him a landscape of savage mountains. He caught 
my eye on that spiritedly composed woodcut. (There 
were no inane snapshot-reproductions in those days.) It 
was the obvious romance for the use of royalists but it 
arrested my attention. 

Just then some masks from outside mvaded the cafe, 
dancing hand in hand in a single file led by a burly man 
with a cardboard nose. He gambolled in wildly and^ 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


ir 


behind him twenty others perhaps, mostly Pierrots and 
Pierrettes holding each other by the hand and winding in 
and out between the chairs and tables: eyes shining in 
the holes of cardboard faces, breasts panting; but all pre- 
serving a mysterious silence. 

They were people of the poorer sort (white calico with 
red spots, costumes), but amongst them there was a girl 
in a black dress sewn over with gold half moons, very 
high in the neck and very short in the skirt. Most of 
the ordinary clients of the cafe didn’t even look up from 
their games or papers. I, being alone and idle, stared 
abstractedly. The girl costumed as Night wore a small 
black velvet mask, what is called in French a “hup.” 
What made her daintiness join that obviously rough lot 
I can’t imagine. Her uncovered mouth and chin sug- 
gested refined prettiness. 

TTiey filed past my table; the Night noticed perhaps 
my fixed gaze and throwing her body forward out of the 
wriggling chain shot out at me a slender tongue like a 
pink dart. I was not prepared for this, not even to the 
extent of an appreciative “ Trh joli,” before she wriggled 
and hopped away. But having been thus distinguished 
I could do no less than follow her with my eyes to the 
door where the chain of hands being broken all the 
masks were trying to get out at once. Two gentlemen 
coming in out of the street stood arrested in the crush. 
The Night (it must have been her idiosyncrasy) put her 
tongue out at them, too. The taller of the two (he was 
in evening clothes under a light wide-open overcoat) with 
great presence of mind chucked her under the chin, giv- 
ing me the view at the same time of a flash of white 
teeth in his dark, lean face. The other man was very dif- 


12 


THE ARKOW OF GOLD 


ferent; fair, with smooth, ruddy cheeks and burly shoul- 
ders. He was wearing a grey suit, obviously bought ready- 
made, for it seemed too tight for his powerful frame. 

That man was not altogether a stranger to me. For 
the last week or so I had been rather on the look-out for 
him in all the public places where in a provincial town 
men may expect to meet each other. I saw him for the 
first time (wearing that same grey ready-made suit) in a 
legitimist drawing-room where, clearly, he was an object 
of interest, especially to the women. I had caught his 
name as Monsieur Mills. The lady who had introduced 
me took the earliest opportunity to murmur into my ear: 
“A relation of Lord X.” {Un proche parent de Lard X.) 
And then she added, casting up her eyes: “A good friend 
of the King.” Meaning Don Carlos of course. 

I looked at the proche parent; not on account of the 
parentage but marvelling at his air of ease in that cum- 
brous body and in such tight clothes, too. But presently 
the same lady informed me further: “He has come here 
amongst us un naufragS.” 

I became then really interested. I had never seen a 
shipwrecked person before. All the boyishness in me 
was aroused. I considered a shipwreck as an unavoid- 
able event sooner or later in my future. 

Meantime the man thus distinguished in my eyes 
glanced quietly about and never spoke unless addressed 
directly by one of the ladies present. There were more 
than a dozen people in that drawing-room, mostly wom- 
en eating fine pastry and talking passionately. It might 
have been a Carlist committee meeting of a particularly 
fatuous character. Even my youth and inexperience 
were aware of that. And I was by a long way the young- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


13 


est person in the room. That quiet Monsieur Mills in- 
timidated me a little by his age (I suppose he was thirty- 
five), his massive tranquillity, his clear, watchful eyes. 
But the temptation was too great — and I addressed 
him impulsively on the subject of that shipwreck. 

He turned his big fair face towards me with surprise in 
his keen glance, which (as though he had seen through 
me in an instant and found nothing objectionable) 
changed subtly into friendliness. On the matter of the 
shipwTCck he did not say much. He only told me that 
it had not occurred in the Mediterranean, but on the 
other side of Southern France — in the Bay of Biscay. 
“But this is hardly the place to enter on a story of that 
kind,” he observed, looking round at the room with a 
faint smile as attractive as the rest of his rustic but well- 
bred personality. 

I expressed my regret. I should have liked to hear all 
about it. To this he said that it was not a secret and 
that perhaps next time we met. . . . 

“But where can we meet?” I cried. “I don’t come 
often to this house, you know.” 

“Where? Why on the Cannebiere to be sure. Every- 
body meets everybody else at least once a day on the 
pavement opposite the Bourse." 

This was absolutely true. But though I looked for 
him on each succeeding day he was nowhere to be seen 
at the usual times. The companions of my idle hours 
(and all my hours were idle just then) noticed my preoc- 
cupation and chaffed me about it in a rather obvious 
way. They wanted to know whether she, whom I ex- 
pected to see, was dark or fair; whether that fascination 
which kept me on tenterhooks of expectation was one of 


14 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


my aristocrats or one of my marine beauties: for they 
knew I had a footing in both these — shall we say cir- 
cles? As to themselves they were the bohemian circle, 
not very wide — half a dozen of us led by a sculptor 
whom we called Prax for short. My own nick-name 
was “Young Ulysses.” I liked it. 

But chaff or no chaff they would have been surprised 
to see me leave them for the burly and sympathetic 
Mills. I was ready to drop any easy company of equals 
to approach that interesting man with every mental 
deference. It was not precisely because of that ship- 
wreck. He attracted and interested me the more because 
he was not to be seen. The fear that he might have de- 
parted suddenly for England — (or for Spain) — caused 
me a sort of ridiculous depression as though I had missed 
a unique opportunity. And it was a joyful reaction 
which emboldened me to signal to him with a raised arm 
across that cafe. , 

I was abashed immediately afterwards, when I saw 
him advance towards my table with his friend. The lat- 
ter was eminently elegant. He was exactly like one of 
those figures one can see of a fine May evening in the 
neighbourhood of the Opera-house in Paris. Very Pari- 
sian indeed. And yet he struck me as not so perfectly 
French as he ought to have been, as if one’s nationality 
were an accomplishment with varying degrees of excel- 
lence. As to Mills, he was perfectly insular. There 
could be no doubt about him. They were both smiling 
faintly at me. The burly Mills attended to the intro- 
duction: “Captain Blunt.” 

We shook hands. The name didn’t tell me much. 
What surprised me was that Mills should have remem- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


15 


bered mine so well. I don’t want to boast of my mod- 
esty but it seemed to me that two or three days was 
more than enough for a man like Mills to forget my 
very existence. As to the Captain, I was struck on 
closer view by the perfect correctness of his personality. 
Clothes, slight figure, clear-cut, thin, sun-tanned face, 
pose, all this was so good that it was saved from the 
danger of banality only by the mobile black eyes of 
a keenness that one doesn’t meet every day in the south 
of France and still less in Italy. Another thing was that, 
viewed as an oflScer in mufti, he did not look sufficiently 
professional. That imperfection was interesting, too. 

You may think that I am subtilizing my impressions 
on purpose, but you may take it from a man who has 
lived a rough, a very rough life, that it is the subtleties 
of personalities, and contacts, and events, that count for 
interest and memory — and pretty well nothing else. 
This , — you see — is the last evening of that part of my 
life in which I did not know that woman. These are 
like the last hours of a previous existence. It isn’t my 
fault that they are associated with nothing better at the 
decisive moment than the banal splendours of a gilded 
cafe and the bedlamite yells of carnival in the street. 

We three, however (almost complete strangers to each 
other), had assumed attitudes of serious amiability round 
our table. A waiter approached for orders and it was 
then, in relation to my order for coffee, that the abso- 
lutely first thing I learned of Captain Blunt was the fact 
that he was a sufferer from insomnia. In his immovable 
way Mills began charging his pipe. I felt extremely em- 
barrassed all at once but became positively annoyed 
when I saw our Prax enter the cafe in a sort of mediseval 


16 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


costume very much like what Faust wears in the third 
act. I have no doubt it was meant for a purely operatic 
Faust. A light mantle floated from his shoulders. He 
strode theatrically up to our table and addressing me as 
“Young Ulysses” proposed I should go outside on the fields 
of asphalt and help him gather a few marguerites to dec- 
orate a truly infernal supper which was being organized 
across the road at the Maison Doree — upstairs. With 
expostulatory shakes of the head and indignant glances 
I called his attention to the fact that I was not alone. 
He stepped back a pace as if astonished by the discov- 
ery, took off his plumed velvet toque with a low obei- 
sance so that the feathers swept the floor, and sw'aggered 
off the stage with his left hand resting on the hilt of the 
property dagger at his belt. 

Meantime the well-connected but rustic Mills had 
been busy lighting his briar and the distinguished Cap- 
tain sat smiling to himself. I was horribly vexed and 
apologized for that intrusion, saying that the fellow was 
a future great sculptor and perfectly harmless; but he 
had been swallowing lots of night air which had got into 
his head apparently. 

Mills peered at me with his friendly but awfully 
searching blue eyes through the cloud of smoke he had 
wreathed about his big head. The slim, dark Captain’s 
smile took on an amiable expression. Might he know 
why I was addressed as “Young Ulysses” by my friend? 
and immediately he added the remark with urbane play- 
fulness that Ulysses was an astute person. Mills did not 
give me time for a reply. He struck in: “That old 
Greek was famed as a wanderer — the first historical 
seaman.” He waved his pipe vaguely at me. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


17 


“Ah! Vraiment!” The polite Captain seemed incred- 
ulous and as if weary. “Are you a seaman? In what 
sense, pray?” We were talking French and he used the 
term homme de mer. 

Again Mills interfered quietly. “In the same sense in 
which you are a military man.” {Homme de guerre.) 

It was then that I heard Captain Blunt produce one 
of his striking declarations. He had two of them, and 
this was the first. 

“I live by my sword.” 

It was said in an extraordinary dandified manner 
which in conjunction with the matter made me forget 
my tongue in my head. I could only stare at him. He 
added more naturally: “2nd Reg. Castille Cavalry.” 
Then with marked stress in Spanish, las filas legiti- 
mas.” 

Mills was heard, unmoved, like Jove in his cloud: 
“He’s on leave here.” 

“Of course I don’t shout that fact on the housetops,” 
the Captain addressed me pointedly, “any more than 
our friend his shipwreck adventure. We must not strain 
the toleration of the French authorities too much! It 
wouldn’t be correct — and not very safe either.” 

I became suddenly extremely delighted with my com- 
pany. A man who “lived by his sword,” before my 
eyes, close at my elbow! So such people did exist in the 
world yet! I had not been born too late! And across 
the table with his air of watchful, unmoved benevolence, 
enough in itself to arouse one’s interest, there was the 
man with the story of a shipwreck that mustn’t be 
shouted on housetops. Why? 

I understood very well why, when he told me that he 


18 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


had joined in the Clyde a small steamer chartered by a 
relative of his, “a very wealthy man,” he observed (prob- 
ably Lord X, I thought), to carry arms and other sup- 
plies to the Carlist army. And it was not a shipwreck 
in the ordinary sense. Everything went perfectly well 
to the last moment when suddenly the Numancia (a 
Republican ironclad) had appeared and chased them 
ashore on the French coast below Bayonne. In a few 
words, but with evident appreciation of the adventure. 
Mills described to us how he swam to the beach clad 
simply in a money belt and a pair of trousers. Shells 
were falling all round till a tiny French gunboat came 
out of Bayonne and shooed the Numancia away out of 
territorial waters. 

He was very amusing and I was fascinated by the 
mental picture of that tranquil man rolling in the surf 
and emerging breathless, in the costume you know, on 
the fair land of France, in the character of a smuggler of 
war material. However, they had never arrested or ex- 
pelled him, since he was there before my eyes. But how 
and why did he get so far from the scene of his sea ad- 
venture was an interesting question. And I put it to 
him with most naive indiscretion which did not shock 
him visibly. He told me that the ship being only strand- 
ed, not sunk, the contraband cargo aboard was doubtless 
in good condition. The French custom-house men were 
guarding the wreck. If their vigilance could be — h’m — 
removed by some means, or even merely reduced, a lot 
of these rifles and cartridges could be taken off quietly 
at night by certain Spanish fishing boats. In fact, salved 
for the Carlists, after all. He thought it could be 
done. . . . 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


19 


I said with professional gravity that given a few per- 
fectly quiet nights (rare on that coast) it could certainly 
be done. 

Mr. MiUs was not afraid of the elements. It was the 
highly inconvenient zeal of the French custom-house 
people that had to be dealt with in some way. 

“Heavens!” I cried, astonished. “You can’t bribe the 
French Customs. This isn’t a South-American republic.” 

“Is it a republic?” he murmured, very absorbed in 
smoking his wooden pipe. 

“WeU, isn’t it?” 

He murmured again, “Oh, so little.” At this I 
laughed, and a faintly humorous expression passed over 
Mills’ face. No. Bribes were out of the question, he 
admitted. But there were many legitimist sympathies in 
Paris. A proper person could set them in motion and a 
mere hint from high quarters to the officials on the spot 
not to worry over-much about that wreck. . . . 

What was most amusing was the cool, reasonable tone 
of this amazing project. Mr. Blunt sat by very de- 
tached, his eyes roamed here and there all over the cafe; 
and it was while looking upward at the pink foot of a 
fleshy and very much foreshortened goddess of some sort 
depicted on the ceiling in an enormous composition in 
the Italian style that he let fall casually the words, 
“She will manage it for you quite easily.” 

“Every Carlist agent in Bayonne assured me of that,” 
said Mr. Mills. “I would have gone straight to Paris 
only I was told she had fled here for a rest: tired, dis- 
contented. Not a very encouraging report.” 

“These flights are well known,” muttered Mr. Blunt. 
“You shall see her all right.” 


20 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“Yes. They told me that you ...” 

I broke in: “You mean to say that you expect a 
woman to arrange that sort of thing for you?” 

“A trifle, for her,” Mr. Blunt remarked indifferently. 
“At that sort of thing women are best. They have less 
scruples.” 

“More audacity,” interjected Mr. Mills almost in a 
whisper. 

Mr. Blunt kept quiet for a moment, then: “You see,” 
he addressed me in a most refined tone, “a mere man 
may suddenly find himself being kicked down the stairs.” 

I don’t know why I should have felt shocked by that 
statement. It could not be because it was untrue. The 
other did not give me time to offer any remark. He in- 
quired with extreme politeness what did I know of South 
American republics? I confessed that I knew very little 
of them. Wandering about the Gulf of Mexico I had a 
look-in here and there; and amongst others I had a few 
days in Haiti which was of course unique, being a negro 
republic. On this Captain Blunt began to talk of ne- 
groes at large. He talked of them with knowledge, in- 
telligence, and a sort of contemptuous affection. He 
generalized, he particularized about the blacks; he told 
anecdotes. I was interested, a little incredulous, and 
considerably surprised. What could this man with such 
a boulevardier exterior that he looked positively like an 
exile in a provincial town, and with his drawing-room 
manner — what could he know of negroes? 

Mills, sitting silent with his air of watchful intelligence, 
seemed to read my thoughts, waved his pipe slightly and 
explained: “The Captain is from South Carolina.” 

“Oh,” I murmured, and then after the slightest of 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 21 

pauses I heard the second of Mr. J. K. Blunt's declara- 
tions. 

‘‘ Yes," he said. suis AmSricain, catholique et gentil- 
hommey' in a tone contrasting so strongly with the smile, 
which, as it were, underlined the uttered words, that I was 
at a loss whether to return the smile in kind or acknowl- 
edge the words with a grave little bow. Of course I did 
neither and there fell on us an odd, equivocal silence. It 
marked our final abandonment of the French language. 
I was the one to speak first, proposing that my compan- 
ions should sup with me, not across the way, which 
would be riotous with more than one ‘‘infernal" supper, 
but in another much more select establishment in a side 
street away from the Cannebiere. It fiattered my van- 
ity a little to be able to say that I had a corner table 
always reserved in the Salon des Palmiers, otherwise 
Salon Blanc, where the atmosphere was legitimist and 
extremely decorous besides — even in Carnival time. 
“Nine tenths of the people there," I said, “would be 
of your political opinions, if that’s an inducement. Come 
along. Let’s be festive," I encouraged them. 

I didn’t feel particularly festive. What I wanted was 
to remain in my company and break an inexplicable 
feeling of constraint of which I was aware. Mills looked 
at me steadily with a faint, kind smile. 

“No," said Blunt. “Why should we go there? They 
will be only turning us out in the small hours, to go 
home and face insomnia. Can you imagine anything 
more disgusting? . . . " 

He was smiling all the time, but his deep-set eyes did 
not lend themselves to the expression of whimsical polite- 
ness which he tried to achieve. He had another sugges- 


22 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


tion to offer. Why shouldn’t we adjourn to his rooms? 
He had there materials for a dish of his own invention 
for which he was famous all along the line of the Royal 
Cavalry outposts, and he would cook it for us. There 
were also’a few bottles of some white wine, quite possible 
which we could drink out of Venetian cut-glass goblets. A 
bivouac feast, in fact. And he wouldn’t turn us out in 
the small hours. Not he. He couldn’t sleep. 

Need I say I was fascinated by the idea? Well, yes. 
But somehow I hesitated and looked towards Mills, so 
much my senior. He got up without a word. This was 
decisive; for no obscure premonition, and of something 
indefinite at that, could stand against the example of his 
tranquil personality. 


n 


T he street in which Mr. Blunt lived presented 
itself to our eyes, narrow, silent, empty, and 
dark, but with enough gas-lamps in it to dis- 
close its most striking feature: a quantity of flag-poles 
sticking out above many of its closed portals. It was 
the street of Consuls and I remarked to Mr. Blunt that 
I coming out in the morning he could survey the flags of 
all nations almost — except his own. (The U. S. con- 
sulate was on the other side of the town.) He mumbled 
through his teeth that he took good care to keep clear of 
his own consulate. 

“Are you afraid of the consul’s dog?” I asked jocu- 
larly. The consul’s dog weighed about a pound and a 
half and was known to the whole town as exhibited on 
the consular fore-arm in all places, at all hours, but main- 
ly at the hour of the fashionable promenade on the 
Prado. 

But I felt my jest misplaced when Mills growled low 
in my ear: “They are all Yankees there.” 

I murmured a confused “Of course.” 

Books are nothing. I discovered that I had never 
been aware before that the Civil War in America was 
not printed matter but a fact only about ten years old. 
Of course. He was a South Carolinian gentleman. I 
was a little ashamed of my want of tact. Meantime, 
looking like the conventional conception of a fashionable 
reveller, with his opera-hat pushed off his forehead. Cap- 


24 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 

tain Blunt was having some slight difEcul'y with his 
latch-key; for the house before which we Icopped 
was not one of those many-storied houses that made up 
the greater part of the street. It had only one row of 
windows above the ground floor. Dead walls abutting 
on to it indicated that it had a garden. Its dark 
front presented no marked architectural character, and 
in the flickering light of a street lamp it looked a little 
as though it had gone down in the world. The greater 
then was my surprise to enter a hall paved in black and 
white marble and in its dimness appearing of palatial 
proportions. Mr. Blunt did not turn up the small soli- 
tary gas-jet, but led the way across the black and white 
pavement past the end of the staircase, past a door of 
gleaming dark wood with a heavy bronze handle. It 
gave access to his rooms he said; but he took us straight 
on to the studio at the end of the passage. 

It was rather a small place tacked on in the manner 
of a lean-to to the garden side of the house. A large 
lamp was burning brightly there. The floor was of mere 
flagstones but the few rugs scattered about though ex- 
tremely worn were very costly. There was also there a 
beautiful sofa upholstered in pink figured silk, an enor- 
mous divan with many cushions, some splendid arm- 
chairs of various shapes (but all very shabby), a round 
table, and in the midst of these fine things a small common 
iron stove. Somebody must have been attending it late- 
ly, for the fire roared and the warmth of the place was 
very grateful after the bone-searching cold blasts of mis- 
tral outside. 

Mills without a word flung himself on the divan and, 
propped on his arm, gazed thoughtfully at a distant cor- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


25 


ner whcF? in the shadow of a monumental carved ward- 
robe an ;,i ticulated dummy without head or hands but 
with beautifully shaped limbs composed in a shrinking 
attitude, seemed to be embarrassed by his stare. 

As we sat enjoying the bivouac hospitality (the 
dish was really excellent and our host in a shabby grey 
jacket still looked the accomplished man-about-town) 
my eyes kept on straying towards that corner. Blunt 
noticed this and remarked that I seemed to be attracted 
by the Empress. 

“It’s disagreeable,’’ I said. “It seems to lurk there 
like a shy skeleton at the feast. But why do you give 
the name of Empress to that dummy?’’ 

“Because it sat for days and days in the robes of a 
Byzantine Empress to a painter. ... I wonder where 
he discovered these priceless stuffs. . . . You knew 
him, I believe?’’ 

Mills lowered his head slowly, then tossed down his 
throat some wine out of a Venetian goblet. 

“This house is full of costly objects. So are all his 
other houses, so is his place in Paris — that mysterious 
Pavilion hidden away in Passy somewhere.” 

Mills knew the Pavilion. The wine had, I suppose, 
loosened his tongue. Blunt, too, lost something of his re- 
serve. From their talk I gathered the notion of an eccen- 
tric personality, a man of great wealth, not so much 
solitary as difficult of access, a collector of fine things, a 
painter known only to very few people and not at all 
to the public market. But as meantime I had been 
emptying my Venetian goblet with a certain regularity 
(the amount of heat given out by that iron stove was 
amazing; it parched one’s throat, and the straw-coloured 


26 


THE ARROW ""OLD 


wine didn’t seem much stronger .a so much pleasantly 
flavoured water) the voices and rhe impressions they con- 
veyed acquired something fantastic to my mind. Sud- 
denly I perceived that Mills was sitting in his shirt- 
sleeves. I had not noticed him taking off his coat. Blunt 
had unbuttoned his shabby jacket, exposing a lot of 
starched shirt-front with the white tie under his dark 
shaved chin. He had a strange air of insolence — or so 
it seemed to me. I addressed him much louder than I 
intended really. 

“Did you know that extraordinary man?” 

“To know him personally one had to be either very 
distinguished or very lucky. Mr. Mills here . . .” 

“Yes, I have been lucky,” Mills struck in. “It was 
my cousin who was distinguished. That’s how I man- 
aged to enter his house in Paris — it was called the 
Pavilion — twice.” 

“And saw Dona Rita twice, too?” asked Blunt with 
an indefinite smile and a marked emphasis. Mills was 
also emphatic in his reply but with a serious face. 

“I am not an easy enthusiast where women are con- 
cerned, but she was without doubt the most admirable 
find of his amongst all the priceless items he had accumu- 
lated in that house — the most admirable. . . . ” 

“Ah! But, you see, of all the objects there she was the 
only one that was alive,” pointed out Blunt with the 
slightest possible flavour of sarcasm. 

“Immensely so,” aflSrmed Mills. “Not because she 
was restless, indeed she hardly ever moved from that 
couch between the windows — you know.” 

“No. I don’t know. I’ve never been in there,” an- 
nounced Blunt with that flash of white teeth so strangely 


THE '^now OF GOLD 27 

without any character ’<», ts own that it was merely dis- 
turbing. 

“But she radiated life,” continued Mills. “She had 
plenty of it, and it had a quality. My cousin and Henry 
Allegre had a lot to say to each other and so I was free 
to talk to her. At the second visit we were like old 
friends, which was absurd considering that all the chances 
were that we would never meet again in this world or in 
the next. I am not meddling with theology but it seems 
to me that in the Elysian fields she’ll have her place in a 
very special company.” 

All this in a sympathetic voice and in his unmoved 
manner. Blunt produced another disturbing white fiash 
and muttered: 

“I should say mixed.” Then louder: “As for in- 
stance . . ” 

“As for instance Cleopatra,” answered Mills quietly. 
He added after a pause: “Who was not exactly pretty.” 

“I should have thought rather a La Valliere,” Blunt 
dropped with an indifference of which one did not know 
what to make. He may have begun to be bored with 
the subject. But it may have been put on, for the whole 
personality was not clearly definable. I, however, was 
not indifferent. A woman is always an interesting sub- 
ject and I was thoroughly awake to that interest. Mills 
pondered for a while with a sort of dispassionate benevo- 
lence; at last: 

“Yes, Dona Rita as far as I know her is so varied in 
her simplicity that even that is possible,” he said. “Yes. 
A romantic resigned La Valliere . . . who had a big 
mouth.” 

I felt moved to make myself heard. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“Did you know La Valliere, too?” I asked imperti- 
nently. 

Mills only smiled at me. “No. I am not quite so old as 
that,” he said. “But it’s not very difficult to know 
facts of that kind about a historical personage. There 
were some ribald verses made at the time, and Louis 
XIV was congratulated on the possession — I really 
don’t remember how it goes — on the possession of: 

. de ce bee amoureux 
Qui d’une oreille a I’autre va, 

Tra la la 

or something of the sort. It needn’t be from ear to ear, 
but it’s a fact that a big mouth is often a sign of a cer- 
tain generosity of mind and feeling. Young man, beware 
of women with small mouths. Beware of the others, too, 
of course; but a small mouth is a fatal sign. Well, the 
royalist sympathizers can’t charge Dona Rita with any 
lack of generosity from what I hear. Why should I 
judge her? I have knoMm her for, say, six hours alto- 
gether. It was enough to feel the seduction of her native 
intelligence and of her splendid physique. And all that 
was brought home to me so quickly,” he concluded, 
“because she had what some Frenchman has called the 
‘terrible gift of familiarity.’ ” 

Blimt had been listening moodily. He nodded 
assent. 

“Yes!” Mills’ thoughts were still dwelling in the past. 
“And when saying good-bye she could put in an instant 
an immense distance between herself and you. A slight 
stiffening of that perfect figure, a change of the physiog- 
nomy: it was like being dismissed by a person born in 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


29 


the purple. Even if she did offer you her hand — as she 
did to me — it was as if across a broad river. Trick of 
manner or a bit of truth peeping out.^ Perhaps she’s 
really one of those inaccessible beings. What do you 
think. Blunt.^ ” 

It was a direct question which for some reason (as if 
my range of sensitiveness had been increased already) 
displeased or rather disturbed me strangely. Blunt 
seemed not to have heard it. But after a while he turned 
to me. 

“That thick man,” he said in a tone of perfect urban- 
ity, “is as fine as a needle. All these statements about 
the seduction and then this final doubt expressed after only 
two visits which could not have included more than six 
hours altogether and this some three years ago? But it 
is Henry Allegre that you should ask this question, Mr. 
Mills.” 

“I haven’t the secret of raising the dead,” answered 
Mills good humouredly. “And if I had I would hesitate. 
It would seem such a liberty to take with a person one 
had known so slightly in life.” 

“And yet Henry Allegre is the only person to ask 
about her, after all this uninterrupted companionship of 
years, ever since he discovered her; all the time, every 
breathing moment of it, till, literally, his very last breath. 
I don’t mean to say she nursed him. He had his confi- 
dential man for that. He couldn’t bear women about his 
person. But then apparently he couldn’t bear this one 
out of his sight. She’s the only woman who ever sat to 
him, for he would never suffer a model inside his house. 
That’s why the ‘Girl in the Hat’ and the ‘Byzantine 
Empress’ have that family air, though neither of them 


30 THE ARROW OF GOLD 

is really a likeness of Dofia Rita. . . . You know my 

mother.?’” 

Mills inclined his body slightly and a fugitive smile 
vanished from his lips. Blunt’s eyes were fastened on 
the very centre of his empty plate. 

“Then perhaps you know my mother’s artistic and lit- 
erary associations,” Blunt went on in a subtly changed 
tone. “My mother has been writing verse since she was 
a girl of fifteen. She’s still writing verse. She’s still fif- 
teen — a spoiled girl of genius. So she requested one of 
her poet friends — no less than Versoy himself — to ar- 
range for a visit to Henry Allegre’s house. At first he 
thought he hadn’t heard aright. You must know that 
for my mother a man that doesn’t jump out of his sk i n 
for any woman’s caprice is not chivalrous. But perhaps 
you do know? . . . ” 

Mills shook his head with an amused air. Blunt, who 
had raised his eyes from his plate to look at him, started 
afresh with great deliberation. 

“She gives no peace to herself or her friends. My 
mother’s exquisitely absurd. You understand that all 
these painters, poets, art collectors (and dealers in bric- 
a-brac, he interjected through his teeth), of my mother 
are not in my way; but Versoy lives more like a man of 
the world. One day I met him at the fencing school. 
He was furious. He asked me to tell my mother that 
this was the last effort of his chivalry. The jobs she 
gave him to do were too difficult. But I daresay he had 
been pleased enough to show the influence he had in that 
quarter. He knew my mother would tell the world’s 
wife all about it. He’s a spiteful, gingery little wretch. 
The top of his head shines like a billiard ball. I believe 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


31 


he polishes it every morning with a cloth. Of course 
they didn’t get further than the big drawing-room on 
the first floor, an enormous drawing-room with three 
pairs of columns in the middle. The double doors on the 
top of the staircase had been thrown wide open, as if for a 
visit from royalty. You can picture to yourself my 
mother, with her white hair done in some 18th century 
fashion and her sparkling black eyes, penetrating into 
those splendours attended by a sort of bald-headed, vexed 
squirrel — and Henry Allegre coming forward to meet 
them like a severe prince with the face of a tombstone 
Crusader, big white hands, muffled silken voice, half-shut 
eyes, as if looking down at them from a balcony. You 
remember that trick of his. Mills?” 

Mills emitted an enormous cloud of smoke out of his 
distended cheeks. 

“I daresay he was furious, too,” Blunt continued dis- 
passionately. “But he was extremely civil. He showed 
her all the ‘treasures’ in the room, ivories, enamels, 
miniatures, all sorts of monstrosities from Japan, from 
India, from Timbuctoo . . . for all I know. 

He pushed his condescension so far as to have the ‘Girl 
in the Hat’ brought down into the drawing-room — 
half length, unframed. They put her on a chair for my 
mother to look at. The ‘Byzantine Empress’ was al- 
ready there, hung on the end wall — full length, gold 
frame weighing half a ton. My mother first overwhelms 
the ‘Master’ with thanks, and then absorbs herself in 
the adoration of the ‘ Girl in the Hat.’ Then she 
sighs out: ‘It should be called Diaphaneite, if there 
is such a word. Ah! This is the last expression of 
modernity!’ She puts up suddenly her face-a-main 


32 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


and looks towards the end wall. ‘And that — Byzan^ 
tium itself! Who was she, this sullen and beautiful 
Empress?’ 

“ ‘The one I had in my mind was Theodosia!’ Allegre 
consented to answer. ‘Originally a slave girl — from 
somewhere.’ 

“My mother can be marvellously indiscreet when the 
whim takes her. She finds nothing better to do than to 
ask the ‘Master’ why he took his inspiration for those 
two faces from the same model. No doubt she was 
proud of her discerning eye. It was really clever of her. 
Allegre, however, looked on it as a colossal impertinence; 
but he answered in his silkiest tones: 

“ ‘ Perhaps it is because I saw in that woman something 
of the women of all time.’ 

“My mother might have guessed that she was on thin 
ice there. She is extremely intelligent. Moreover, she 
ought to have known. But women can be miraculously 
dense sometimes. So she exclaims, ‘Then she is a won- 
der!’ And with some notion of being complimentary 
goes on to say that only the eyes of the discoverer of so 
many wonders of art could have discovered something so 
marvellous in life. I suppose Allegre lost his temper al- 
together then; or perhaps he only wanted to pay my 
mother out, for all these ‘Masters’ she had been throw- 
ing at his head for the last two hours. He insinuates 
with the utmost politeness: 

“ ‘As you are honouring my poor collection with a visit 
you may like to judge for yourself as to the inspiration of 
these two pictures. She is upstairs changing her dress 
after our morning ride. But she wouldn’t be very long. 
She might be a little surprised at first to be called down 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 33 

like this, but with a few words of preparation and purely 
as a matter of art . . . ’ 

“There were never two people more taken aback. Ver- 
soy himself confesses that he dropped his tall hat with a 
crash. I am a dutiful son I hope but I must say I should 
have liked to have seen the retreat down the great stair- 
case. Ha! Ha! Ha!” 

He laughed most undutifully and then his face twitched 
grimly. 

“That implacable brute Allfegre followed them down 
ceremoniously and put my mother into the fiacre at the 
door with the greatest deference. He didn’t open his lips 
though, and made a great bow as the fiacre drove away. 
My mother didn’t recover from her consternation for 
three days. I lunch with her almost daily and I couldn’t 
imagine what was the matter. Then one day . . . ” 

He glanced round the table, jumped up and with a 
word of excuse left the studio by a small door in a cor- 
ner. This startled me into the consciousness that I had 
been as if I had not existed for these two men. With his 
elbows propped on the table Mills had his hands in front 
of his face clasping the pipe from which he extracted now 
and then a puff of smoke, staring stolidly across the room. 

I was moved to ask in a whisper: 

“Do you know him well?” 

“I don’t know what he is driving at,” he answered 
drily. “But as to his mother she is not as volatile as all 
that. I suspect it was business. It may have been a 
deep plot to get a picture out of Allegre for somebody. 
My cousin as likely as not. Or simply to discover what 
he had. The Blunts lost all their property and in Paris 
there are various ways of making a little money, without 


34 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


actually breaking anything. Not even the law. And 
Mrs. Blunt really had a position once — in the days of 
the Second Empire — and so . . . ” 

I listened open-mouthed to these things into which my 
West-Indian experiences could not have given me an in- 
sight. But Mills checked himself and ended in a changed 
tone. 

“It’s not easy to know what she would be at, either, 
in any given instance. For the rest, spotlessly honour- 
able. A delightful, aristocratic old lady. Only poor.” 

A bump at the door silenced him and immediately Mr. 
John Blunt, Captain of Cavalry in the Army of Legitim- 
ity, first-rate cook (as to one dish at least), and generous 
host, entered clutching the necks of four more bottles 
between the fingers of his hand. 

“I stumbled and nearly smashed the lot,” he remarkea' 
casually. But even I, with all my innocence, never for a 
moment believed he had stumbled accidentally. During 
the uncorking and the filling up of glasses a profound 
silence reigned; but neither of us took it seriously — any 
more than his stumble. 

“One day,” he went on again in that curiously fla- 
voured voice of his, “my mother took a heroic deci- 
sion and made up her mind to get up in the middle of 
the night. You must understand my mother’s phraseol- 
ogy. It meant that she would be up and dressed by nine 
o’clock. This time it was not Versoy that was com- 
manded for attendance, but I. You may imagine how 
delighted I was. . . .” 

It was very plain to me that Blunt was addressing 
himself exclusively to Mills: Mills the mind, even 
more than Mills the man. It was as if Mills repre- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


35 


sented something initiated and to be reckoned with. I, 
of course, could have no such pretensions. If I repre- 
sented anything it was a perfect freshness of sensations 
and a refreshing ignorance, not so much of what life may 
give one (as to that I had some ideas at least) but of 
what it really contains. I knew very well that I was 
utterly insignificant in these men’s eyes. Yet my atten- 
tion was not checked by that knowledge. It’s true they 
were talking of a woman but I was yet at the age when 
this subject by itself is not of overwhelming interest. 
My imagination would have been more stimulated prob- 
ably by the adventures and fortunes of a man. What 
kept my interest from flagging was Mr. Blunt himself. 
The play of the white gleams of his smile round the sus- 
picion of grimness of his tone fascinated me like a moral 
incongruity. 

So at the age when one sleeps well indeed but does 
feel sometimes as if the need of sleep were a mere weak- 
ness of a distant old age, I kept easily awake; and in my 
freshness I was kept amused by the contrast of person- 
alities, of the disclosed facts and moral outlook with the 
rough initiations of my West-Indian experience. And ail 
these things were dominated by a feminine figure which 
to my imagination had only a floating outline, now in- 
vested with the grace of girlhood, now with the prestige 
of a woman; and indistinct in both these characters. 
For these two men had seen her, while to me she was 
only being ‘‘presented,” elusively, in vanishing words, in 
the shifting tones of an unfamiliar voice. 

She was being presented to me now in the Bois de 
Boulogne at the early hour of the ultra-fashionable world 
(so I understood), on a light bay “bit of blood” attend- 


36 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


ed on the off side by that Henry Allegre mounted on a 
dark brown powerful weight carrier; and on the other by 
one of Allegro’s acquaintances (the man had no real 
friends), distinguished frequenters of that mysterious 
Pavilion. And so that side of the frame in which that 
woman appeared to one down the perspective of the 
great Allee was not permanent. That morning when Mr. 
Blunt had to escort his mother there for the gratification 
of her irresistible curiosity (of which he highly disap- 
proved) there appeared in succession, at that woman’s or 
girl’s bridle-hand, a cavalry general in red breeches, on 
whom she was smiling; a rising politician in a grey suit, 
who talked to her with great animation but left her side 
abruptly to join a personage in a red fez and mounted on 
a white horse; and then, some time afterwards, the vexed 
Mr. Blunt and his indiscreet mother (though I really 
couldn’t see where the harm was) had one more chance 
of a good stare. The third party that time was the Royal 
Pretender (Allegre had been painting his portrait lately), 
whose hearty, sonorous laugh was heard long before the 
mounted trio came riding very slowly abreast of the 
Blunts. There was colour in the girl’s face. She was 
not laughing. Her expression was serious and her eyes 
thoughtfully downcast. Blunt admitted that on that 
occasion the charm, brilliance, and force of her personal- 
ity was adequately framed between those magnificently 
mounted, paladin-like attendants, one older than the 
other but the two composing together admirably in the 
different stages of their manhood. Mr. Blunt had never 
before seen Henry Allegre so close. Allegre was riding 
nearest to the path on which Blunt was dutifully giving 
his arm to his mother (they had got out of their fiaere) 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


37 


and wondering if that confounded fellow would have the 
impudence to take off his hat. But he did not. Perhaps 
he didn’t notice. Allegre was not a man of wandering 
glances. There were silver hairs in his beard but he 
looked as solid as a statue. Less than three months 
afterwards he was gone. 

‘‘What was it.^” asked Mills, who had not changed his 
pose for a very long time. 

“Oh, an accident. But he lingered. They were on 
their way to Corsica. A yearly pilgrimage. Sentimental 
perhaps. It was to Corsica that he carried her off — I 
mean first of all.” 

There was the slightest contraction of Mr. Blunt’s 
facial muscles. Very slight; but I, staring at the narra- 
tor after the manner of all simple souls, noticed it; the 
twitch of a pain which surely must have been mental. 
There was also a suggestion of effort before he went on: 
“I suppose you know how he got hold of her?” in a tone 
of ease which was astonishingly ill-assumed for such a 
worldly, self -controlled, drawing-room person. 

Mills changed his attitude to look at him fixedly for a 
moment. Then he leaned back in his chair and with in- 
terest — I don’t mean curiosity, I mean interest: “Does 
anybody know besides the two parties concerned?” he 
asked, with something as it were renewed (or was it 
refreshed?) in his unmoved quietness. “I ask because 
one has never heard any tales. I remember one evening 
in a restaurant seeing a man come in with a lady — a 
beautiful lady — very particularly beautiful, as though 
she had been stolen out of Mahomet’s paradise. With 
Dona Rita it can’t be anything as definite as that. But 
speaking of her in the same strain, I’ve always felt that 


38 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


she looked as though Allegre had caught her in the pre- 
cincts of some temple . . .in the mountains.” 

I was delighted. I had never heard before a woman 
spoken about in that way, a real live woman that is, not 
a woman in a book. For this was no poetry and yet it 
seemed to put her in the category of visions. And I 
would have lost myself in it if Mr. Blunt had not, most 
unexpectedly, addressed himself to me. 

“I told you that man was as fine as a needle.” . 

And then to Mills: “Out of a temple.^ We know what 
that means.” His dark eyes flashed: “And must it be 
really in the mountains?” he added. 

“Or in a desert,” conceded Mills, “if you prefer that. 
There have been temples in deserts, you know.” 

Blunt had calmed down suddenly and assumed a non- 
chalant pose. 

“As a matter of fact, Henry Allegre caught her very 
early one morning in his own old garden full of thrushes 
and other small birds. She was sitting on a stone, a frag- 
ment of some old balustrade, with her feet in the damp 
grass, and reading a tattered book of some kind. She 
had a short, black, two-penny frock {une petite robe de 
deux sous) and there was a hole in one of her stockings. 
She raised her eyes and saw him looking down at her 
thoughtfully over that ambrosian beard of his, like Jove 
at a mortal. They exchanged a good long stare, for at 
first she was too startled to move; and then he mur- 
mured, “Restez done.” She lowered her eyes again on her 
book and after a while heard him walk away on the 
path. Her heart thumped while she listened to the lit- 
tle birds filling the air with their noise. She was not 
frightened. I am telling you this positively because she 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 39 

has told me the tale herself. What better authority can 
you have . . .?” Blunt paused. 

“That’s true. She’s not the sort of person to lie about 
her own sensations,” murmured Mills above his clasped 
hands. 

“Nothing can escape his penetration,” Blunt remarked 
to me with that equivocal urbanity which made me al- 
ways feel uncomfortable on Mills’ account. “Positively 
nothing.” He turned to Mills again. “After some min- 
utes of immobility — she told me — she arose from her 
stone and walked slowly on the track of that apparition. 
Allegre was nowhere to be seen by that time. Under the 
gateway of the extremely ugly tenement house, which 
hides the Pavilion and the garden from the street, the 
wife of the porter was waiting with her arms akimbo. 
At once she cried out to Rita: ‘You were caught by our 
gentleman.’ 

“As a matter of fact, that old woman, being a friend of 
Rita’s aunt, allowed the girl to come into the garden 
whenever Allegre was away. But Allegre’s goings and 
comings were sudden and unannounced; and that morn- 
ing, Rita, crossing the narrow, thronged street, had 
slipped in through the gateway in ignorance of Allegre’s 
return and unseen by the porter’s wife. 

“The child, she was but little more than that then, 
expressed her regret of having perhaps got the kind por- 
ter’s wife into trouble. 

“The old woman said with a peculiar smile: ‘Your 
face is not of the sort that gets other people into trouble. 
My gentleman wasn’t angry. He says you may come in 
any morning you like.’ 

“Rita, without saying anything to this, crossed the 


40 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


street back again to the warehouse full of oranges where 
she spent most of her waking hours. Her dreaming, 
empty, idle, thoughtless, unperturbed hours, she calls 
them. She crossed the street with a hole in her stock- 
ing. She had a hole in her stocking not because her 
uncle and aunt were poor (they had around them never 
less than eight thousand oranges, mostly in cases) but 
because she was then careless and untidy and totally un- 
conscious of her personal appearance. She told me her- 
self that she was not even conscious then of her personal 
existence. She was a mere adjunct in the twilight life 
of her aunt, a Frenchwoman, and her uncle, the orange 
merchant, a Basque peasant, to whom her other uncle, 
the great man of the family, the priest of some parish in 
the hills near Tolosa, had sent her up at the age of thir- 
teen or thereabouts for safe keeping. She is of peasant 
stock, you know. This is the true origin of the ‘Girl in 
the Hat’ and of the ‘Byzantine Empress’ which excited 
my dear mother so much; of the mysterious girl that the 
privileged personalities great in art, in letters, in politics, 
or simply in the world, could see on the big sofa during 
the gatherings in Allegre’s exclusive Pavilion: the Dona 
Rita of their respectful addresses, manifest and mysteri- 
ous, like an object of art from some unknown period; the 
Dona Rita of the initiated Paris. Dona Rita and noth- 
ing more — unique and indefinable.” He stopped with 
a disagreeable smile. 

“And of peasant stock?” I exclaimed in the strangely 
conscious silence that fell between Mills and Blunt. 

“Oh! All these Basques have been ennobled by Don 
Sanche II,” said Captain Blunt moodily. “You see coats 
of arms carved over the doorways of the most miserable 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


41 


caserios. As far as that goes she’s Dona Rita right 
enough whatever else she is or is not in herself or in the 
eyes of others. In your eyes, for instance, Mills. Eh.^” 

For a time Mills preserved that conscious silence. 

^‘Why think about it at all,” he murmured coldly at 
last. ‘'A strange bird is hatched sometimes in a nest in 
an unaccouiffable way and then the fate of such a bird 
is bound to be ill-defined, uncertain, questionable. And 
so that is how Henry Allegre saw her first? And what 
happened next?” 

‘‘What happened next?” repeated Mr. Blunt, with an 
affected surprise in his tone. “Is it necessary to ask 
that question? If you had asked how the next hap- 
pened. . . . But as you may imagine she hasn’t 

told me anything about that. She didn’t,” he continued 
with polite sarcasm, “enlarge upon the facts. That con- 
founded Allegre, with his impudent assumption of prince- 
ly airs, must have (I shouldn’t wonder) made the fact of 
his notice appear as a sort of favour dropped from Olym- 
pus. I really can’t tell how the minds and the imagina- 
tions of such aunts and uncles are affected by such rare 
visitations. Mythology may give us a hint. There is 
the story of Danae, for instance.” 

“There is,” remarked Mills calmly, “but I don’t re- 
member any aunt or uncle in that connection.” 

“And there are also certain stories of the discovery 
and acquisition of some unique objects of art. The sly 
approaches, the astute negotiations, the lying and the 
circumventing . . . fortheloveof beauty, you know.” 

With his dark face and with the perpetual smiles 
playing about his grimness, Mr. Blunt appeared to me 
positively satanic. Mills’ hand was toying absently with 


42 THE ARROW OF GOLD 

an empty glass. Again they had forgotten my existence 
altogether. 

“I don’t know how an object of art would feel,” went 
on Blunt, in an unexpectedly grating voice, which, how- 
ever, recovered its tone immediately. ‘T don’t know. 
But I do know that Rita herself was not a Danae, never, 
not at any time of her life. She didn’t mind the holes in 
her stockings. She wouldn’t mind holes in her stockings 
now. . . . That is if she manages to keep any 

stockings at all,” he added, with a sort of suppressed 
fury so funnily unexpected that I would have burst into 
a laugh if I hadn’t been lost in astonishment of the sim- 
plest kind. 

“No — really!” There was a flash of interest from 
the quiet Mills. 

“Yes, really,” Blunt nodded and knitted his brows 
very devilishly indeed. “She may yet be left without a 
single pair of stockings.” 

“The world’s a thief,” declared Mills, with the utmost 
composure. “It wouldn’t mind robbing a lonely traveller.” 

“He is so subtle.” Blunt remembered my existence 
for the purpose of that remark and as usual it made me 
very uncomfortable. “Perfectly true. A lonely travel- 
ler. They are all in the scramble from the lowest to the 
highest. Heavens! What a gang! There was even an 
Archbishop in it.” 

“ Vmis 'plaisantez,” said Mills, but without any marked 
show of incredulity. 

“I joke very seldom,” Blunt protested earnestly. 
“That’s why I haven’t mentioned His Majesty — whom 
God preserve. That would have been an exaggera- 
tion. . . However, the end is not yet. We w’^ere 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


43 


talking about the beginning. I have heard that some 
dealers in fine objects, quite mercenary people of course 
(my mother has an experience in that world), show some- 
times an astonishing reluctance to part with some speci- 
mens, even at a good price. It must be very funny. It’s 
just possible that the uncle and the aunt have been rolling 
in tears on the floor, amongst their oranges, or beating their 
heads against the walls from rage and despair. But I 
doubt it. And in any case Allure is not the sort of per- 
son that gets into any vulgar trouble. And it’s just pos- 
sible that those people stood open-mouthed at all that 
magnificence. They weren’t poor, you know; therefore it 
wasn’t incumbent on them to be honest. They are still 
there in the old respectable warehouse, I understand. 
They have kept their position in their qnartier, I believe. 
But they didn’t keep their niece. It might have been an 
T,ct of sacrifice! For I seem to remember hearing that 
after attending for a while some school round the corner 
the child had been set to keep the books of that orange 
business. However it might have been, the first fact in 
Rita’s and Allegre’s common history is a journey to It- 
aly, and then to Corsica. You know Allegre had a house 
in Corsica somewhere. She has it now as she has every- 
thing he ever had; and that Corsican palace is the por- 
tion that will stick the longest to Dora Rita, I imagine. 
Who would want to buy a place like that? I suppose 
nobody would take it for a gift. The fellow was having 
houses built all over the place. This very house where 
we are sitting belonged to him. Dona Rita has given it 
to her sister, I understand. Or at any rate the sister 
runs it. She is my landlady . . .” 

“Her sister here!’’ I exclaimed. “Her sister!’’ 


44 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


Blunt turned to me politely, but only for a long mute 
gaze. His eyes were in deep shadow and it struck me for 
the first time then that there was something fatal in that 
man’s aspect as soon as he fell silent. I think the effect 
was purely physical but in consequence whatever he said 
seemed inadequate and as if produced by a common- 
place, if uneasy, soul. 

“Dona Rita brought her down from her mountains on 
purpose. She is asleep somewhere in this house, in one 
of the vacant rooms. She lets them, you know, at extor- 
tionate prices, that is, if people will pay them, for she is 
easily intimidated. You see, she has never seen such an 
enormous town before in her life, nor yet so many strange 
people. She has been keeping house for the uncle-priest 
in some mountain gorge for years and years. It’s extraor- 
dinary he should have let her go. There is something 
mysterious there, some reason or other. It’s either the- 
ology or Family. The saintly uncle in his wild parish 
would know nothing of any other reasons. She wears a 
rosary at her waist. Directly she had seen some real 
money she developed a love of it. If you stay with me 
long enough, and I hope you will (I really can’t sleep), 
you will see her going out to mass at half -past six; but 
there is nothing remarkable in her; just a peasant woman 
of thirty-four or so. A rustic nun. . . . ” 

I may as well say at once that we didn’t stay as long 
as that. It was not that morning that I saw for the first 
time Therese of the whispering lips and downcast eyes 
slipping out to an early mass from the house of iniquity 
into the early winter murk of the city of perdition, in a 
world steeped in sin. No. It was not on that morning 
that I saw Dona Rita’s incredible sister with her brown. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


45 


dry face, her gliding motion, and her really nun-like 
dress, with a black handkerchief enfolding her head 
tightly, with the two pointed ends hanging down her 
back. Yes, nun-like enough. And yet not altogether. 
People would have turned round after her if those 
dartings out to the half -past six mass hadn’t been the only 
occasion on which she ventured into the impious streets. 
She was frightened of the streets, but in a particular 
way, not as if of a danger but as if of a contamination. 
Yet she didn’t fly back to her mountains because at bot- 
tom she had an indomitable character, a peasant tenac- 
ity of purpose, predatory instincts. 

No, we didn’t remain long enough with Mr. Blunt to 
see even as much as her back glide out of the house on 
her prayerful errand. She was prayerful. She was terri- 
ble. Her one-idead peasant mind was as inaccessible as 
a closed iron safe. She was fatal. . . . It’s perfect- 1 

ly ridiculous to confess that they all seem fatal to me 
now; but writing to you like this in all sincerity I don’t 
mind appearing ridiculous. I suppose fatality must be 
expressed, embodied, like other forces of this earth; and 
if so why not in such people as well as in other more glo- 
rious or more frightful figures. 

We remained, however, long enough to let Mr. Blunt’s 
half-hidden acrimony develop itself or prey on itself in 
further talk about the man All^gre and the girl Rita. 
Mr. Blunt, still addressing Mills with thaM: story, passed 
on to what he called the second act, the disclosure, with, 
what he called, the characteristic Allegre impudence — 
which surpassed the impudence of kings, millionaires, or 
tramps, by many degrees — the revelation of Rita’s ex- 
istence to the world at large. It wasn’t a very large 


46 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


world but then it was most choicely composed. How ii 
one to describe it shortly? In a sentence it was the 
world that rides in the morning in the Bois. 

In something less than a year and a half from the time 
he found her sitting on a broken fragment of stone work 
buried in the grass of his wild garden, full of thrushes, 
starlings, and other innocent creatures of the air, he had 
given her amongst other accomplishments the art of sit- 
ting admirably on a horse and directly they returned to 
Paris he took her out with him for their first morning ride. 

“I leave you to judge of the sensation,” continued Mr. 
Blunt, with a faint grimace, as though the words had an 
acrid taste in his mouth. “And the consternation,” he 
added venomously. “Many of those men on that great 
morning had some one of their womenkind with them. 
But their hats had to go off all the same, especially the 
hats of the fellows who were under some sort of obliga- 
tion to Allegre. You would be astonished to hear the 
names of people, of real personalities in the world, who, 
not to mince matters, owed money to Allegre. And I 
don’t mean in the world of art only. In the first rout of 
the surprise some story of an adopted daughter was set 
abroad hastily, I believe. You know ‘adopted’ with a 
peculiar accent on the word — and it was plausible 
enough. I have been told that at that time she looked 
extremely youthful by his side, I mean extremely youth- 
ful in expression, in the eyes, in the smile. She must 
have been. . . . ” 

Blunt pulled himself up short but not so short as not 
to let the confused murmur of the word “adorable” 
reach our attentive ears. 

The heavy Mills made a slight movement in his chair. 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


47 


The effect on me was more inward, a strange emotion 
which left me perfectly still; and for the moment of si- 
lence Blimt looked more fatal than ever. 

“I understand it didn’t last very long,” he addressed 
us politely again, “And no wonder! The sort of talk she 
would have heard during that first springtime in Paris 
would have put an impress on a much less receptive per- 
sonality; for of course Allegre didn’t close his doors to 
his friends and this new apparition was not of the sort to 
make them keep away. After that first morning she al- 
ways had somebody to ride at her bridle hand. Old 
Doyen, the sculptor, was the first to approach them. At 
that age a man may venture on anything. He rides a 
strange animal like a circus horse. Rita had spotted him 
out of the corner of her eye as he passed them, putting 
up his enormous paw in a still more enormous glove, air- 
ily, you know, like this (Blunt waved his hand above his 
head), to Allegre. He passes on. All at once he wheels 
his fantastic animal round and comes trotting after them. 
With the merest casual ‘Bonjour, Allegre’ he ranges 
close to her on the other side and addresses her, hat in 
hand, in that booming voice of his like a deferential roar 
of the sea very far away. His articulation is not good, 
and the first words she really made out were T am an 
old sculptor. ... Of course there is that hab- 
it. .. . But I can see you through all that. . . . ’ 

“He put his hat on very much on one side. T am a 
great sculptor of women,’ he declared. T gave up my 
life to them, poor unfortunate creatures, the most beau- 
tiful, the wealthiest, the most loved. . . . Two 

generations of them. . . . Just look at me full in 

the eyes, mon enfanV 


48 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“They stared at each other. Dona Rita confessed to 
me that the old fellow made her heart beat with such 
force that she couldn’t manage to smile at him. And she 
saw his eyes run full of tears. He wiped them simply 
with the back of his hand and went on booming faintly. 
‘Thought so. You are enough to make one cry. I 
thought my artist’s life was finished, and here you come 
along from devil knows where with this young friend of 
mine, who isn’t a bad smearer of canvases — but it’s 
marble and bronze that you want. ... I shall fin- 
ish my artist’s life with your face; but I shall want a bit 
of those shoulders, too. . . . You hear, Allegre, I 

must have a bit of her shoulders, too. I can see through 
the cloth that they are divine. If they aren’t divine I 
will eat my hat. Yes, I will do your head and then — 
nunc dimittis.* 

“ These were the first words with which the world greet- 
ed her, or should I say civilization did; already both her 
native mountains and the cavern of oranges belonged 
now to a prehistoric age. ‘Why don’t you ask him to 
come this afternoon?’ All^gre’s voice suggested gently. 
‘He knows the way to the house.’ 

“The old man said with extraordinary fervour, ‘Oh, 
yes, I will,’ pulled up his horse and they went on. She 
told me that she could feel her heart-beats for a long 
time. The remote power of that voice, those old eyes 
full of tears, that noble and ruined face, had affected her 
extraordinarily, she said. But perhaps what affected her 
was the shadow, the still living shadow of a great passion 
in the man’s heart. 

“Allegre remarked to her calmly: ‘He has been a little 
mad all his life.’ ” 


in 


M ills lowered the hands holding the extinct and 
even cold pipe before his big face. 

‘‘H’m, shoot an arrow into that old man’s 
heart like this.^ But was there anything done?” 

‘‘A terra-cotta bust, I believe. Good? I don’t know. 
I rather think it’s in this house. A lot of things have 
been sent down from Paris here, when she gave up the 
Pavilion. When she goes up now she stays in hotels, 
you know. I imagine it is locked up in one of these 
things,” went on Blunt, pointing towards the end of the 
studio where amongst the monumental presses of dark 
oak lurked the shy dummy which had worn the stiff robes 
of the Byzantine Empress and the amazing hat of the 
"‘Girl,” rakishly. I wondered whether that dummy had 
travelled from Paris, too, and whether with or without 
its head. Perhaps that head had been left behind, hav- 
ing rolled into a corner of some empty room in the dis- 
mantled Pavilion. I represented it to myself very lone- 
ly, without features, like a turnip, with a mere peg stick- 
ing out where the neck should have been. . . . And 

Mr. Blunt was talking on. 

“There are treasures behind these locked doors, bro- 
cades, old jewels, unframed pictures, bronzes, chinoise- 
ries, Japoneries.” . 

He growled as much as a man of his accomplished 
manner and voice could growl. “I don’t suppose she 
49 


50 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


gave away all that to her sister, but I shouldn’t be sur- 
prised if that timid rustic didn’t lay a claim to the lot 
for the love of God and the good of the Church. 

And held on with her teeth, too,” he added graphically. 

Mills’ face remained grave. Very grave. I was amused 
at those little venomous outbreaks of the fatal Mr. Blunt. 
Again I knew myself utterly forgotten. But I didn’t feel 
dull and I didn’t even feel sleepy. That last strikes me 
as strange at this distance of time, in regard of my tender 
years and of the depressing hour which precedes the 
dawn. We had been drinking that straw-coloured wine, 
too, I won’t say like water (nobody would have drunk 
water like that) but, well . . . and the haze of to- 

bacco smoke was like the blue mist of great distances 
seen in dreams. 

Yes, that old sculptor was the first who joined them 
in the sight of all Paris. It was that old glory that opened 
the series of companions of those morning rides; a series 
which extended through three successive Parisian spring- 
times and comprised a famous physiologist, a fellow who 
seemed to hint that mankind could be made immortal or at 
least everlastingly old; a fashionable philosopher and psy- 
chologist who used to lecture to enormous audiences of 
women with his tongue in his cheek (but never permitted 
himself anything of the kind when talking to Rita) ; that 
surly dandy Cabanel (but he only once, from mere vanity), 
and everybody else at all distinguished including also a 
celebrated person who turned out later to be a swindler. 
But he was really a genius. . . . All this according 

to Mr. Blunt, who gave us all those details with a sort of 
languid zest covering a secret irritation. 

“Apart from that, you know,” went on Mr. Blunt, 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


51 


“all she knew of the world of men and women (I mean 
till Allegre’s death) was what she had seen of it from the 
saddle two hours every morning during four months of 
the year or so. Absolutely all, with Allegre self-deny- 
ingly on her right hand, with that impenetrable air of 
guardianship. Don’t touch! He didn’t like his treasures 
to be touched unless he actually put some unique object 
into your hands with a sort of triumphant murmur, ‘ Look 
close at that.’ Of course I only have heard all this. 
I am much too small a person, you understand, to 
even . . .” 

He flashed his white teeth at us most agreeably, but 
the upper part of his face, the shadowed setting of his 
eyes, and the slight drawing in of his eyebrows gave a 
fatal suggestion. I thought suddenly of the definition he 
applied to himself; “ AmSricain, catholique et gentil- 
homme” completed by that startling “I live by my 
sword” uttered in a light drawing-room tone tinged by a 
flavour of mockery lighter even than air. 

He insisted to us that the first and only time he had 
seen Allegre a little close was that morning in the Bois 
with his mother. His Majesty (whom God preserve), 
then not even an active Pretender, flanked the girl, still 
a girl, on the other side, the usual companion for a month 
past or so. Allegre had suddenly taken it into his head 
to paint his portrait. A sort of intimacy had sprung up. 
Mrs. Blunt’s remark was that of the two striking horse- 
men Allegre looked the more kingly. 

“The son of a confounded millionaire soap-boiler,” 
commented Mr. Blunt through his clenched teeth. “A 
man absolutely without parentage. Without a single re- 
lation in the world. Just a freak.” 


52 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“That explains why he could leave all his fortune to 
her,” said Mills. 

“The will, I believe,” said Mr. Blunt moodily, “was 
written on a half sheet of paper, with his device of an 
Assyrian bull at the head. What the devil did he mean 
by it? Anyway it was the last time that she surveyed 
the world of men and women from the saddle. Less than 
three months later .1. . ” 

“Allegre died and . . .” murmured Mills in an in- 

terested manner. 

“And she had to dismount,” broke in Mr. Blunt grim- 
ly. “ Dismount right into the middle of it. Down to the 
very ground, you understand. I suppose you can guess 
what that would mean. She didn’t know what to do with 
herself. She had never been on the ground. She . . . ” 

“Aha!” said Mills. 

“Even eh! eh! if you like,” retorted Mr. Blunt, in an 
unrefined tone, that made me open my eyes, which were 
well opened before, still wider. 

He turned to me with that horrible trick of his of com- 
menting upon Mills as though that quiet man whom I 
admired, whom I trusted, and for whom I had already 
something resembling admiration, had been as much of 
a dummy as that other one lurking in the shadows, piti- 
ful and headless in its attitude of alarmed chastity. 

“Nothing escapes his penetration. He can perceive a 
haystack at an enormous distance when he is interested.” 

I thought this was going rather too far even to the 
borders of vulgarity; but Mills remained untroubled and 
only reached for his tobacco pouch. 

“But that’s nothing to my mother’s interest. She can 
never see a haystack, therefore she is always so surprised 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


5S 


and excited. Of course Dona Rita was not a woman 
about whom the newspapers insert little paragraphs. 
But Allegre was the sort of man. A lot came out in print 
about him and a lot was talked in the world about her; 
and at once my dear mother perceived a haystack and 
naturally became unreasonably absorbed in it. I thought 
her interest would wear out. But it didn’t. She had 
received a shock and had received an impression by 
means of that girl. My mother has never been treated 
with impertinence before, and the aesthetic impression 
must have been of extraordinary strength. I must sup- 
pose that it amounted to a sort of moral revolution, I 
can’t account for her proceedings in any other way. 
When Rita turned up in Paris a year and a half after 
Allegre’s death some shabby journalist (smart creature) 
hit upon the notion of alluding to her as the heiress of 
Mr. Allegre. ‘The heiress of Mr. Allegre has taken up 
her residence again amongst the treasures of art in that 
Pavilion so well known to the elite of the artistic, scien- 
tific, and political world, not to speak of the members of 
aristocratic and even royal families. . . . ’ You 

know the sort of thing. It appeared first in the Figaro^ I 
believe. And then at the end a little phrase: ‘She is 
alone.’ She was in a fair way of becoming a celebrity of 
a sort. Daily little allusions and that sort of thing. 
Heaven only knows who stopped it. There was a rush of 
‘old friends’ into that garden, enough to scare all the 
little birds away. I suppose one or several of them, hav- 
ing influence with the press, did it. But the gossip didn’t 
stop, and the name stuck, too, since it conveyed a very 
certain and very significant sort of fact, and of course the 
Venetian episode was talked about in the houses fre- 


54 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


quented by my mother. It was talked about from a roy- 
alist point of view with a kind of respect. It was even 
said that the inspiration and the resolution of the war 
going on now over the Pyrenees had come out from that 
head. . . . Some of them talked as if she were the 

guardian angel of Legitimacy. You know what royalist 
gush is like.” 

Mr. Blunt’s face expressed sarcastic disgust. Mills 
moved his head the least little bit. Apparently he knew. 

“Well, speaking with all possible respect, it seems to 
have affected my mother’s brain. I was already with the 
royal army and of course there could be no question of 
regular postal communications with France. My mother 
hears or overhears somewhere that the heiress of Mr. 
Allegre is contemplating a secret journey. All the 
noble Salons were full of chatter about that secret natu- 
rally. So she sits down and pens an autograph: ‘Ma- 
dame, Informed that you are proceeding to the place on 
which the hopes of all the right thinking people are fixed. 
I trust to your womanly sympathy with a mother’s anx- 
ious feelings, etc., etc.,’ and ending with a request to 
take messages to me and bring news of me. . 

The coolness of my mother!” 

Most unexpectedly Mills was heard murmuring a ques- 
tion which seemed to me very odd. 

“I wonder how your mother addressed that note?” 

A moment of silence ensued. 

“Hardly in the newspaper style, I should think,” re- 
torted Mr. Blunt, with one of his grins that made me 
doubt the stability of his feelings and the consistency of 
his outlook in regard to his whole tale. “My mother’s 
maid took it in a fiacre very late one evening to the 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


55 


Pavilion and brought an answer scrawled on a scrap of 
paper: ‘Write your messages at once’ and signed with 
a big capital R. So my mother sat down again to her 
charming writing desk and the maid made another jour- 
ney in a fiacre just before midnight; and ten days later 
or so I got a letter thrust into my hand at the avanzadas 
just as I was about to start on a night patrol, together 
with a note asking me to call on the writer so that she 
might allay my mother’s anxieties by telling her how I 
looked. 

“It was signed R only, but I guessed at once and near- 
ly fell off my horse with surprise. ” 

“You mean to say that Dona Rita was actually at the 
royal headquarters lately?” exclaimed Mills, with evi- 
dent surprise. “Why we — everybody — thought that all 
this affair was over and done with.” ^ 

“Absolutely. Nothing in the world could be more done 
with than that episode. Of course the rooms in the hotel 
at Tolosa were retained for her by an order from Royal 
Headquarters. Two garret-rooms, the place was so full of 
all sorts of court people; but I can assure you that for 
the^three days she was there she never put her head out- 
side the door. General Mongroviejo called on her offi- 
cially from the King. A general, not anybody of the 
household, you see. That’s a distinct shade of the pres- 
ent relation. He stayed just five minutes Some person- 
age from the Foreign department at Headquarters was 
closeted for about a couple of hours. That was of 
course business. Then two officers from the staff came 
together with some explanations or instructions to her. 
Then Baroii H., a fellow with a pretty wife, who had 
made so many sacrifices for the cause, raised a great to- 


56 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


do about seeing her and she consented to receive him for 
a moment. They say he was very much frightened by 
her arrival, but after the interview went away all smiles. 
Who else? Yes, the Archbishop came. Half an hour. 
This is more than is necessary to give a blessing, and I 
can’t conceive what else he had to give her. But I am 
sure he got something out of her. Two peasants from the 
upper valley were sent for by the military authorities 
and she saw them, too. That friar who hangs about the 
court has been in and out several times. Well, and last- 
ly, I myself. I got leave from the outposts. That was 
the first time I talked to her. I would have gone that 
evening back to the regiment but the friar met me in 
the corridor and informed me that I would be ordered to 
escort that most loyal and noble lady back to the French 
frontier as a personal mission of the highest honour. I 
was inclined to laugh at him. He himself is a cheery and 
jovial person and he laughed with me quite readily — 
but I got the order before dark all right. It was rather a 
job, as the Alphonsists were attacking the right flank of 
our whole front and there was some considerable disor- 
der there. I mounted her on a mule and her maid on 
another. W’e spent one night in a ruined old tower occu- 
pied by some of our infantry and got away at daybreak 
under the Alphonsist shells. The maid nearly died of 
fright and one of the troopers with us was wounded. To 
smuggle her back across the frontier was another job, 
but it wasn’t my job. It wouldn’t have done for her to 
appear in sight of French frontier posts in the company 
of Carlist uniforms. She seems to have a fearless streak 
in her nature. At one time as we were climbing a slope 
absolutely exposed to artillery fire I asked her on pur- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


57 


pose, being provoked by the way she looked about at the 
scenery. ‘A little emotion, eh?’ And she answered me in 
a low voice: ‘Oh, yes! I am moved. I used to run about 
these hills when I was little.’ And note, just then the 
trooper close behind us had been wounded by a shell 
fragment. He was swearing awfully and fighting with his 
horse. The shells were falling around us about two to 
the minute. 

“Luckily the Alphonsist shells are not much better 
than our own. But women are funny. I was afraid the 
maid would jump down and clear out’amongst the rocks, 
in which case we should have had to dismount and catch 
her. But she didn’t do that; she sat perfectly still on her 
mule and shrieked. Just simply shrieked. Ultimately 
we came to a curiously shaped rock at the end of a short 
wooded valley. It was very still there and the sunshine 
was brilliant. I said to Dofia Rita: ‘We will have to 
part in a few minutes. I understand that my mission 
ends at this rock.’ And she said: ‘I know this rock well. 
This is my country.’ 

“Then she thanked me for bringing her there and pres- 
ently three peasants appeared, waiting for us, two youths 
and one shaven old man, with a thin nose like a sword 
blade and perfectly round eyes, a character well known 
to the whole Carlist army. The two youths stopped 
under the trees at a distance, but the old fellow came 
quite close up and gazed at her, screwing up his eyes as if 
looking at the sun. Then he raised his arm very slowly 
and took his red boina off his bald head. I watched her 
smiling at him all the time. I daresay she knew him as 
well as she knew the old rock. Very old rock. The rock 
of ages — and the aged man — landmarks of her youth. 


58 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


Then the mules started walking smartly forward, with 
the three peasants striding alongside of them and van- 
ished between the trees. These fellows were most likely 
sent out by her uncle the Cura. ^ 

“It was a peaceful scene, the morning light, the bit of 
open country framed in steep stony slopes, a high peak 
or two in the distance, the thin smoke of some invisible 
caserios, rising straight up here and there. Far away 
behind us the guns had ceased and the echoes in the 
gorges had died out. I never knew what peace meant 
before. 

“Nor since,” muttered Mr. Blunt after a pause and 
then went on. “The little stone church of her uncle, the 
holy man of the family, might have been round the cor- 
ner of the next spur of the nearest hill. I dismounted 
to bandage the shoulder of my trooper. It was only a 
nasty long scratch. While I was busy about it a bell 
began to ring in the distance. The sound fell deliciously 
on the ear, clear like the morning light. But it stopped 
suddenly, all at once. You know how a distant bell 
stops suddenly. I never knew before what stillness 
meant. While I was wondering at it the fellow holding 
our horses was moved to uplift his voice. He was a 
Spaniard, not a Basque, and he trolled out in Castilian 
that song you know, 

“ ‘Oh bells of my native village, 

I am going away . . , good-bye!’ 

He had a good voice. When the last note had floated 
away I remounted, but there was a charm in the spot, 
something particular and individual because while we 
were looking at it before turning our horses’ heads away, 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


59 


the singer said: T wonder what is the name of this 
place/ and the other man remarked: ‘Why, there is no 
village here,’ and the first one insisted: ‘No, I mean this 
spot, this very place,’ The wounded trooper decided that 
it had no name probably. But he was wrong. It had a 
name. The hill, or the rock, or the wood, or the whole 
had a name. I heard of it by chance later. It was — 
Lastaola.” 

A cloud of tobacco smoke from Mills’ pipe drove be* 
tween my head and the head of Mr. Blunt, who, strange 
to say, yawned slightly. It seemed to me an obvious 
affectation on the part of that man of perfect manners, 
and, moreover, suffering from distressing insomnia. 

“This is how we first met and how we first parted,” 
he said in a weary, indifferent tone. “It’s quite possible 
that she did see her uncle on the way. It’s perhaps on 
this occasion that she got her sister to come out of the 
wilderness. I have no doubt she had a pass from the 
French Government giving her the completest freedom 
of action. She must have got it in Paris before leaving.” 

Mr. Blunt broke out into worldly, slightly cynical 
smiles, 

“She can get anything she likes in Paris. She could 
get a whole army over the frontier if she liked. She 
could get herself admitted into the Foreign OflSce at one 
o’clock in the morning if it so pleased her. Doors fiy 
open before the heiress of Mr. Allegre. She has inherited 
the old friends, the old connections, ... Of course, 
if she were a toothless old woman. . . . But, you see, 

she isn’t. The ushers in all the ministries bow down to 
the ground therefore, and voices from the innermost sanc- 
tums take on an eager tone when they say, ‘ Faites entrer.' 


60 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


My mother knows something about it. She has followed 
her career with the greatest attention. And Rita herself 
is not even surprised. She accomplishes most extraordi- 
nary things, as naturally as buying a pair of gloves. Peo- 
ple in the shops are very polite and people in the world 
are like people in the shops. What did she know of the 
world? She had seen it only from the saddle. Oh, she 
will get your cargo released for you all right. How will 
she do it? . . . Well, when it’s done, you follow 

me. Mills, when it’s done she will hardly know herself.” 

“It’s hardly possible that she shouldn’t be aware,” 
Mills pronounced calmly. 

“No, she isn’t an idiot,” admitted Mr. Blunt, in the 
same matter of fact voice. “But she confessed to my- 
self only the other day that she suffered from a sense of 
unreality. I told her that at any rate she had her own 
feelings surely. And she said to me: Yes, there was one 
of them at least about which she had no doubt; and you 
will never guess what it was. Don’t try. I happen to 
know, because we are pretty good friends.” 

At that moment we all changed our attitude slightly. 
Mills’ staring eyes moved for a glance towards Blunt, I, 
who was occupying the divan, raised myself on the cush- 
ions a little and Mr. Blunt, with half a turn, put his elbow 
on the table. 

“I asked her what it was. I don’t see,” went on Mr. 
Blunt, with a perfectly horrible gentleness, “ why I should 
have shown particular consideration to the heiress of 
Mr. Allegre. I don’t mean to that particular mood of 
hers. It was the mood of weariness. And so she told 
me. It’s fear. I will say it once again: Fear. . . .” 

He added after a pause, “There can be not the slight- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 61 

est doubt of her courage. But she distinctly uttered the 
word fear.” 

There was under the table the noise of Mills stretch- 
ing his legs. 

person of imagination,” he began, ‘‘a young, vir- 
gin intelligence, steeped for nearly five years in the talk 
of Allegro’s studio, where every hard truth had been 
cracked and every belief had been worried into 
shreds. They were like a lot of intellectual dogs, you 
know . . . ” 

‘‘Yes, yes, of course,” Blunt interrupted hastily, “the 
intellectual personality altogether adrift, a soul without 
a home . . . but I who am neither very fine nor very 

deep, I am convinced that the fear is material.” 

“Because she confessed to it being that?” insinuated 
Mills. 

“No, because she didn’t,” contradicted Blunt, with an 
angry frown and in an extremely suave voice. “In fact, 
she bit her tongue. And considering what good friends 
we are (under fire together and all that) I conclude that 
there is nothing there to boast of. Neither is my friend- 
ship, as a matter of fact.” 

Mills’ face was the very perfection of indifference. 
But I who was looking at him, in my innocence, to dis- 
cover what it all might mean, I had a notion that it was 
perhaps a shade too perfect. 

“My leave is a farce,” Captain Blunt burst out, with a 
most unexpected exasperation. “As an officer of Don 
Carlos, I have no more standing than a bandit. I ought 
to have been' interned in those filthy old barracks in 
Avignon a long time ago. . , . Why am I not? Be- 

cause Dona Rita exists and for no other reason on earth? 


m 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


Of course it’s known that I am about. She has only to 
whisper over the wires to the Minister of the Interior, 
‘Put that bird in a cage for me,’ and the thing would be 
done without any more formalities than that. . . . 

Sad world this,” he commented in a changed tone. 
“Nowadays a gentleman who lives by his sword is ex- 
posed to that sort of thing.” 

It was then for the first time I heard Mr. Mills laugh. 
It Vas a deep, pleasant, kindly note, not very loud and 
altogether free from that quality of derision that spoils 
so many laughs and gives away the secret hardness of 
hearts. But neither was it a very joyous laugh. 

“But the truth of the matter is that I am *en mis- 
sion,’” continued Captain Blunt. “I have been in- 
structed to settle some things, to set other things going, 
and, by my instructions, Dofia Rita is to be the inter- 
mediary for all those objects. And why? Because every 
bald head in this Republican Government gets pink at 
the top whenever her dress rustles outside the door. 
They bow with immense deference when the door opens 
but the bow conceals a smirk because of those Venetian 
days. That confounded Versoy shoved his nose into that 
business; he says accidentally. He saw them together on 
the Lido and (those writing fellows are horrible) he wrote 
what he calls a vignette (I suppose accidentally, too) 
under that very title. There was in it a Prince and a 
lady and a big dog. He described how the Prince on 
landing from the gondola emptied his purse into the 
hands of a picturesque old beggar, while the lady, a j 
little way off, stood gazing back at Venice with the dog i 
romantically stretched at her feet. One of Versoy ’s beau- j 
tiful prose vignettes in a great daily that has a literary 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


63 


column. But some other papers that didn’t care a cent 
for literature rehashed the mere fact. And that’s the 
sort of fact that impresses your political man, especially 
if the lady is, well, such as she is . . . ” 

He paused. ? His dark eyes flashed fatally, away from 
us, in the direction of the shy dummy; and then he went 
on with cultivated cynicism. 

‘‘So she rushes down here. Overdone, weary, rest for 
her nerves. Nonsense. I assure you she has no more 
nerves than I have.” 

I don’t know how he meant it but at that moment, 
slim and elegant, he seemed a mere bundle of nerves 
himself, with the flitting expressions on his thin, well- 
bred face, with the restlessness of his meagre brown hands 
amongst the objects on the table. With some pipe ash 
amongst a little spilt wine his foreflnger traced a capital 
R. Then he looked into an empty glass profoundly. I 
have a notion that I sat there staring and listening like a 
yokel at a play. Mills’ pipe was lying quite a foot away 
in front of him, empty, cold. Perhaps he had no more 
tobacco. Mr. Blunt assumed his dandified air — ner- 
vously. 

“Of course her movements are commented on in the 
most exclusive drawing-rooms and also in other places, 
also exclusive, but where the gossip takes on another 
tone. There they are probably saying that she has got 
a ^coup de coeur' for some one. Whereas I think she is 
utterly incapable of that sort of thing. That Venetian 
affair, the beginning of it and the end of it, was nothing 
but a coup de tetCy and all those activities in which I am 
involved, as you see (by order of Headquarters, ha, ha, 
ha!), are nothing but that, all this connection, all this in-r 


C54 THE ARROW OF GOLD 

timacy into which I have dropped . . . Not to speak 

of my mother, who is delightful, but as irresponsible as 
one of those crazy princesses that shock their Royal fam- 
ilies. ...” 

He seemed to bite his tongue and I observed that 
Mills’ eyes seemed to have grown wider than I had ever 
seen them before. In that tranquil face it was a great 
play of feature. “An intimacy,” began Mr. Blunt, wi^ 
an extremely refined grimness of tone, “an intimacy 
with the heiress of Mr. Allegre on the part of . . .on 

my part, well, it isn’t exactly . . . it’s open . 

well, I leave it to you, what does it look like?” 

“Is there anybody looking on?” Mills let fall, gently, 
through his kindly lips. 

“Not actually, perhaps, at this moment. But I don’t 
need to tell a man of the world, like you, that such 
things cannot remain unseen. And that they are, well, 
compromising, because of the mere fact of the fortune.” 

Mills got on his feet, looked for his jacket and after 
getting into it made himself heard while he looked for 
his hat. 

“Whereas the woman herself is, so to speak, priceless.” 

Mr. Blunt muttered the word “Obviously.” 

By then we were all on our feet. The iron stove 
glowed no longer and the lamp, surrounded by empty 
bottles and empty glasses, had grown dimmer. 

I know that I had a great shiver on getting away from 
the cushions of the divan. 

“We will meet again in a few hours,” said Mr. Blunt. 
“Don’t forget to come,” he said, addressing me. “Oh, 
yes, do. Have no scruples. I am authorized to make 
invitations.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


65 


He must have noticed my shyness, my surprise, my 
embarrassment. And indeed I didn’t know what to say. 

“I assure you there isn’t anything incorrect in your 
coming,” he insisted, with the greatest civility. ^‘You 
will be introduced by two good friends. Mills and my- 
self. Surely you are not afraid of a very charming wom- 
an. 

I was not afraid, but my head swam a little and I only 
looked at him mutely. 

“Lunch precisely at midday. Mills will bring you 
along. I am sorry you two are going. I shall throw my- 
self on the bed for an hour or two, but I am sure I won’t 
sleep.” 

^ He accompanied us along the passage into the black- 
and-white hall, where the low gas flame glimmered for- 
lornly. When he opened the front door the cold blast of 
the mistral rushing down the street of the Consuls made 
me shiver to the very marrow of my bones. 

Mills and I exchanged but a few words as we walked 
down towards the centre of the town. In the chill tem- 
pestuous dawn he strolled along musingly, disregarding 
the discomfort of the cold, the depressing influence of 
the hour, the desolation of the empty streets in which 
the dry dust rose in whirls in front of us, behind us, flew 
upon us from the side streets. The masks had gone 
home and our footsteps echoed on the flagstones with 
unequal sound as of men without purpose, without hope. 

“I suppose you will come,” said Mills suddenly. 

“I really don’t know,” I said. 

‘Don’t you? Well, remember I am not trying to per- 
suade you; but I am staying at the Hotel du Louvre 
and I shall leave there at a quarter to twelve for that 


66 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


lunch. At a quarter to twelve, not a minute later. I 
suppose you can sleep?” 

I laughed. 

“Charming age, yours,” said Mills, as we came out on 
the quays. Already dim figures of the workers moved in 
the biting dawn and the masted forms of ships were com- 
ing out dimly, as far as the eye could reach down the old 
harbour. 

“Well,” Mills began again, “you may oversleep your- 
self.” 

This suggestion was made in a cheerful tone, just as 
we shook hands at the lower end of the Cannebiere. He 
looked very burly as he walked away from me.*^: I went 
on towards my lodgings. My head was very full of con- 
fused images, but I was really too tired to think. 


FART TWO 


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I 




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I 


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I 


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f • 


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'.'A' 




I 


S ometimes I wonder yet whether Mills wished 
me to oversleep myself or not: that is, whether he 
really took sufficient interest to care. His uniform 
kindliness of manner made it impossible for me to tell. 
And I can hardly remember my own feelings. Did I 
care? The whole recollection of that time of my life 
has such a peculiar quality that the beginning and the 
end of it are merged in one sensation of profound emo- 
tion, continuous and overpowering, containing the ex- 
tremes of exultation, full of careless joy and of an invin- 
cible sadness — like a daydream. The sense of all this 
having been gone through as if in one great rush of im- 
agination, is all the stronger in the distance of time, be- 
cause it had something of that quality even then: of 
fate unprovoked, of events that didn’t cast any shadow 
before. 

Not that those events were in the least extraordinary. 
They were, in truth, commonplace. What to my back- 
ward glance seems startling and a little awful is their 
punctualness and inevitability. Mills was punctual. Ex- 
actly at a quarter to twelve he appeared under the lofty 
portal of the Hotel de Louvre, with his fresh face, his ill- 
fitting grey suit, and enveloped in his own sympathetic 
atmosphere. 

How could I have avoided him? To this day I have a 
shadowy conviction of his inherent distinction of mind 
and heart, far beyond any man I have ever met since. 

69 


70 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


He was unavoidable: and of course I never tried to avoid 
him. The first sight on which his eyes fell was a victoria 
pulled up before the hotel door, in which I sat with no 
sentiment I can remember now but that of some slight 
shyness. He got in without a moment’s hesitation, his 
friendly glance took me in from head to foot and 
(such was his peculiar gift) gave me a pleasurable sensa- 
tion. 

After we had gone a little way I couldn’t help saying 
to him with a bashful laugh: “You know, it seems very 
extraordinary that I should be driving out with you like 
this.” 

He turned to look at me and in his kind voice: 

“You will find everything extremely simple,” he said. 
“So simple that you will be quite able to hold your own. 
I suppose you know that the world is selfish, I mean the 
majority of the people in it, often unconsciously I must 
admit, and especially people with a mission, with a fixed 
idea, with some fantastic object in view, or even with 
only some fantastic illusion. That doesn’t mean that 
they have no scruples. And I don’t know that at this 
moment I myself am not one of them.” 

“That, of course, I can’t say,” I retorted. 

“I haven’t seen her for years,” he said, “and in com- 
parison with , what she was then she must be very grown 
up by now. From what we heard from Mr. Blunt she 
had experiences which would have matured her more 
than they would teach her. There are of course people 
that are not teachable. I don’t know that she is one of 
them. But as to maturity that’s quite another thing. 
Capacity for suffering is developed in every human being 
worthy of the name.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


71 ' 


“Captain Blunt doesn’t seem to be a very happy per- 
son,” I said. “He seems to have a grudge against every- 
body. People make him wince. The things they do, the 
things they say. He must be awfully mature.” 

Mills gave me a sidelong look. It met mine of the 
same character and we both smiled without openly look- 
ing at each other. At the end of the Rue de Rome the 
violent chilly breath of the mistral enveloped the vic- 
toria in a great widening of brilliant sunshine without 
heat. TVe turned to the right, circling at a stately pace 
about the rather mean obelisk which stands at the en- 
trance to the Prado. 

“I don’t know whether you are mature or not,” said 
Mills humorously. “But I think you will do. 
You ...” 

“Tell me,” I interrupted, “what is really Captain 
Fmnt’s position there?” 

And I nodded at the alley of the Prado opening before 
us between the fows of the perfectly leafless trees. 

“Thoroughly false, I should think. It doesn’t accord 
either with his illusions or his pretensions, or even with 
the real position he has in the world. And so what be- 
tween his mother and the General Headquarters and the 
state of his own feelings he . . . ” 

“He is in love with her,” I interrupted again. 

“That wouldn’t make it any easier. I’m not at all 
sure of that. But if so it can’t be a very idealistic senti- 
ment. All the warmth of his idealism is concentrated 
upon a certain ‘Am^ricain, Catholique el gentUr 
homme. . . . 

The smile which for a moment dwelt on his lips was 
not unkind. 


72 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 

.iV 

“At the same time he has a very good grip of the ma- 
terial conditions that surround, as it were, the situa-- 
tion.” 

“What do you mean? That Dona Rita (the name 
came strangely familiar to my tongue) is rich, that she 
has a fortune of her own?” 

“Yes, a fortune,” said Mills. “But it was Allegre’s 
fortune before. . . . And then there is Blunt’s for- 

tune: he lives by his sword. And there is the fortune of 
his mother, I assure you a perfectly charming, clever, and 
most aristocratic old lady, with the most distinguished 
connections. I really mean it. She doesn’t live by her 
sword. She . . . she lives by her wits. I have a 

notion that those two dislike each other heartily at 
times. . . . Here we are.” 

The victoria stopped in the side alley, bordered by the 
low walls of private grounds. We got out before a 
wrought-iron gateway which stood half open and walked 
up a circular drive to the door of a large villa of a neg- 
lected appearance. The mistral howled in the sunshine, 
shaking the bare bushes quite furiously. And every- 
thing was bright and hard, the air was hard, the light 
was hard, the ground under our feet was hard. 

The door at which Mills rang came open almost at 
once. The maid who opened it was short, dark, and 
slightly pockmarked. For the rest, an obvious *‘fenime- 
de-chambre,” and very busy. She said quickly, “Ala- 
dame has just returned from her ride,” and went up the 
stairs leaving us to shut the front door ourselves. ^ 

The staircase had a crimson carpet. Mr. Blunt ap- 
peared from somewhere in the hall. He was in riding 
breeches and a black coat with ample square skirts. This 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


73 


get-up suited him but it also changed him extremely by 
doing away with the effect of flexible slimness he pro- 
duced in his evening clothes. He looked to me not at 
all himself but rather like a brother of the man who had 
been talking to us the night before. He carried about 
him a delicate perfume of scented soap. He gave us a 
flash of his white teeth and said: 

“It’s a perfect nuisance. We have just dismounted. 
I will have to lunch as I am. A lifelong habit of begin- 
ning her day on horseback. She pretends she is unwell 
unless she does. I daresay, when one thinks there has 
been hardly a day for five or six years that she didn’t be- 
gin wdth a ride. That’s the reason she is always rushing 
away from Paris where she can’t go out in the morning 
alone. Here, of course, it’s different. And as I, too, am 
a stranger here I can go out with her. Not that I par- 
ticularly care to do it.” 

These last words were addressed to Mills specially, 
with the addition of a mumbled remark: “It’s a con- 
founded position.” Then calmly to me with a swift 
smile: “We have been talking of you this morning. 
You are expected with impatience.” 

“Thank you very much,” I said, “but I can’t help 
asking myself what I am doing here.” 

The upward cast in the eyes of Mills who was facing 
the staircase made us both. Blunt and I, turn round. 
The woman of whom I had heard so much, in a sort of 
way in which I had never heard a woman spoken of be- 
fore, was coming down the stairs, and my first sensation 
was that of profound astonishment at this evidence that 
she did really exist. And even then the visual impres- 
sion was more of colour in a picture than of the forms 


74 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


of actual life. She was wearing a wrapper, a sort of 
dressing gown of pale blue silk embroidered with black 
and gold designs round the neck and down the front, 
lapped round her and held together by a broad belt of 
the same material. Her slippers were of the same colour, 
with black bows at the instep. The white stairs, the 
deep crimson of the carpet and the light blue of the 
dress made an effective combination of colour to set off 
the delicate carnation of that face, which, after the first 
glance given to the whole person, drew irresistibly one’s 
gaze to itself by an indefinable quality of charm beyond 
all analysis and made you think of remote races, of 
strange generations, of the faces of women sculptured on 
immemorial monuments and of those lying unsung in 
their tombs. While she moved downwards from step to 
step with slightly lowered eyes there flashed upon me 
suddenly the recollection of words heard at night, of Al- 
legro’s words about her, of there being in her “something 
of the women of all time.” 

At the last step she raised her eyelids, treated us to an 
exhibition of teeth as dazzling as Mr. Blunt’s and looking 
even stronger; and indeed, as she approached us she 
brought home to our hearts (but after all I am speaking 
only for myself) a vivid sense of her physical perfection 
in beauty of limb and balance of nerves, and not so much 
of grace, probably, as of absolute harmony. 

She said to us, “I am sorry I kept you waiting.” Her 
voice was low pitched, penetrating, and of the most se- 
ductive gentleness. She offered her hand to IMills very 
frankly as to an old friend. Within the extraordinary 
wide sleeve, lined with black silk, I could see the arm, 
very white, with a pearly gleam in the shadow. But toj 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


75 


me she extended her hand with a slight stiffening, as it 
were a recoil of her person, combined with an extremely 
straight glance. It was a finely shaped, capable hand. I 
bowed over it, and we just touched fingers. 1 did not 
look then at her face. 

Next moment she caught sight of some envelopes lying 
on the round marble-topped table in the middle of the 
hall. She seized one of them with a wonderfully quick, 
almost feline, movement and tore it open, saying to us, 
“Excuse me, I must . . . Do go into the dining- 

room. Captain Blunt, show the way.” 

Her widened eyes stared at the paper. Mr. Blunt 
threw one of the doors open, but before we passed 
through it we heard a petulant exclamation accompanied 
by childlike stamping with both feet and endmg in a 
laugh which had in it a note of contempt. 

The door closed behind us ; we had been abandoned by 
Mr. Blunt. He had remained on the other side, possibly 
to soothe. The room in which we found ourselves was 
long like a gallery and ended in a rotunda with many 
windows. It was long enough for two fireplaces of red 
polished granite. A table laid out for four occupied very 
little space. The floor inlaid in two kinds of wood in a 
bizarre pattern was highly waxed, reflecting objects like 
still water. 

Before very long Dona Rita and Blunt rejoined us and 
we sat down around the table; but before we could begin 
to talk a dramatically sudden ring at the front-door 
stilled our incipient animation. Dona Rita looked at us 
all in turn, with surprise and, as it were, with suspicion. 
“How did he know I was here?” she whispered after 
looking at the card which was brought to her. She 


76 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


passed it to Blunt, who passed it to Mills, who made a 
faint grimace, dropped it on the table-cloth, and only 
whispered to me, “A journalist from Paris.” 

“He has run me to earth,” said Dona Rita. “One 
would bargain for peace against hard cash if these fellows 
weren’t always ready to snatch at one’s very soul with 
the other hand. It frightens me.” 

Her voice floated mysterious and penetrating from 
her lips which moved very little. Mills was watching 
her with sympathetic curiosity. Mr. Blunt muttered: 
“Better not make the brute angry.” For a moment 
Dona Rita’s face with its narrow eyes, its wide brow, and 
high cheek bones, became very still; then her colour was 
a little heightened. “Oh,” she said softly, “let him come 
in. He would be really dangerous if he had a mind-- 
you know,” she said to Mills. 

The person who had provoked all those remarks and 
as much hesitation as though he had been some sort of 
wild beast, astonished me on being admitted, first b'*'^ the 
beauty of his white head of hair and then by his paternal 
aspect and the innocent simplicity of his manner. They 
laid a cover for him between Mills and Dona Rita, who 
quite openly removed the envelopes she had brought 
with her, to the other side of her plate. As openly the 
man’s round china-blue eyes followed them in an at- 
tempt to make out the handwriting of the addresses. 

He seemed to know, at least slightly, both Mills and 
Blunt. To me he gave a stare of stupid surprise. He 
addressed our hostess. 

“ Resting .f* Rest is a very good thing. Upon my 
word, I thought I would find you alone. But you have 
too much sense. Neither man nor woman has been ere- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


77 


ated to live alone. . . After this opening he had 

all the talk to himself. It was left to him pointedly, and 
I verily believe that I was the only one who showed an 
appearance of interest. I couldn’t help it. The others, 
including Mills, sat like a lot of deaf and dumb people. 
No. It was even something more detached. They sat 
rather like a very superior lot of waxworks, with the fixed 
but indetermined facial expression and with that odd air 
wax figures have of being aware of their existence being 
but a sham. 

I was the exception; and nothing could have marked 
better my status of a stranger, the completest possible 
stranger in the moral region in which those people lived, 
moved, enjoying or suffering their incomprehensible emo- 
tions. I was as much of a stranger as the most hopeless 
castaway stumbling in the dark upon a hut of natives 
and finding them in the grip of some situation appertain- 
ing to the mentalities, prejudices, and problems of an un- 
discovered country — of a country of which he had not 
even had one single clear glimpse before. 

It was even worse in a way. It ought to have been 
more disconcerting. For, pursuing the image of the cast- 
away blundering upon the complications of an unknown 
scheme of life, it was I, the castaway, who was the sav- 
age, the simple innocent child of nature. Those people 
were obviously more civilized than I was. They had 
more rites, more ceremonies, more complexity in their 
sensations, more knowledge of evil, more varied mean- 
ings to the subtle phrases of their language. Naturally! 
I was still so young! And yet I assure you, that just 
then, I lost all sense of inferiority. And why? Of course 
the carelessness and the ignorance of youth had something 


78 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


to do with that. But there was something else besides. 
Looking at Dona Rita, her head leaning on her hand, 
with her dark lashes lowered on the slightly flushed 
cheek, I felt no longer alone in my youth. That woman 
of whom I had heard these things I have set down with 
all the exactness of unfailing memory, that woman was 
revealed to me young, younger than anybody I had ever 
seen, as young as myself (and my sensation of my youth 
was then very acute) ; revealed with something peculiarly 
intimate in the conviction, as if she were young exactly 
in the same way in which I felt myself young; and that 
therefore no misunderstanding between us was possible 
and there could be nothing more for us to know about 
each other. Of course this sensation was momentary, 
but it was illuminating; it was a light which could not 
last, but it left no darkness behind. On the contrary, it 
seemed to have kindled magically somewhere within me 
a glow of assurance, of unaccountable confidence in my- 
self : a warm, steady, and eager sensation of my individ- 
ual life beginning for good there, on that spot, in that 
s«nse of solidarity, in that seduction. ^ 


n 


F or this, properly speaking wonderful, reason I was 
the only one of the company who could listen with- 
out constraint to the unbidden guest with that fine 
head of white hair, so beautifully kept, so magnificently 
waved, so artistically arranged that respect could not be 
felt for it any more than for a very expensive wig in the 
window of a hair-dresser. In fact, I had an inclination to 
smile at it. This proves how unconstrained I felt. My 
mind was perfectly at liberty; and so of all the eyes in 
that room mine was the only pair able to look about in 
easy freedom. All the other listeners’ eyes were cast 
down, including Mills’ eyes, but that I am sure was only 
because of his perfect and delicate sympathy. He could 
not have been concerned otherwise. 

The intruder devoured the cutlets — ^if they were cut- 
lets. Notwithstanding my perfect liberty of mind I was 
not aware of what we were eating. I have a notion that 
the lunch was a mere show, except of course for the man 
with the white hair, who was really hungry and who, be- 
sides, must have had the pleasant sense of dominating 
the situation. He stooped over his plate and worked his 
jaw deliberately while his blue eyes rolled incessantly; 
but as a matter of fact he never looked openly at any 
one of us. Whenever he laid down his knife and fork he 
would throw himself back and start retailing in a light 
tone some Parisian gossip about prominent people. 

He talked first about a certain politician of mark. His 


80 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“dear Rita” knew him. His costume dated back to ’48, 
he was made of wood and parchment and still swathed 
his neck in a white cloth; and even his wife had never 
been seen in a low-necked dress. Not once in her life. 
She was buttoned up to the chin like her husband. Well, 
that man had confessed to him that when he was en- 
gaged in political controversy, not on a matter of prin- 
ciple but on some special measure in debate, he felt ready 
to kill everybody. 

He interrupted himself for a comment. “I am some- 
thing like that myself. I believe it’s a purely profes- 
sional feeling. Carry one’s point whatever it is. Nor- 
mally I couldn’t kill a fly. My sensibility is too acute 
for that. My heart is too tender also. Much too tender. 
I am a Republican. I am a Red. As to all our present 
masters and governors, all those people you are trying to 
turn round your little finger, they are all horrible Royal- 
ists in disguise. They are plotting the ruin of all the in- 
stitutions to which I am devoted. But I have never 
tried to spoil your little game, Rita. After all, it’s but a 
little game. You know very well that two or three fear- 
less articles, something in my style, you know, would soon 
put a stop to all that underhand backing of your king. 
I am calling him king because I want to be polite to you. 
He is an adventurer, a blood-thirsty, murderous adven- 
turer, for me, and nothing else. Look here, my dear 
child, what are you knocking yourself about for? For 
the sake of that bandit? Allans done! A pupil of Henry 
Allegre can have no illusions of that sort about any man. 
And such a pupil, too! Ah, the good old days in the Pa- 
vilion! Don’t think I claim any particular intimacy. It 
,was just enough to enable me to offer my services to you, 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


81 


Rita, when our poor friend died. I found myself handy 
and so I came. It so happened that I was the first. You 
remember, Rita? What made it possible for everybody 
to get on with our poor dear Allegre was his complete, 
equable, and impartial contempt for all mankind. There 
is nothing in that against the purest democratic princi- 
ples; but that you, Rita, should elect to throw so much 
of your life away for the sake of a Royal adventurer, it 
really knocks me over. For you don’t love him. You 
never loved him, you know.” 

He made a snatch at her hand, absolutely pulled it 
away from under her head (it was quite startling) and 
retaining it in his grasp, proceeded to a paternal patting 
of the most impudent kind. She let him go on with ap- 
parent insensibility. Meanwhile his eyes strayed round 
the table over our faces. It was very trying. The stu- 
pidity of that wandering stare had a paralyzing power. 
He talked at large with husky familiarity. 

‘'Here I come, expecting to find a good sensible girl 
who had seen at last the vanity of all those things; half- 
light in the rooms; surrounded by the works of her favour- 
ite poets, and all that sort of thing. I say to myself : I must 
just run in and see the dear wise child, and encourage her 
in her good resolutions. . . . And I fall into the mid- 

dle of an intime lunch-party. For I suppose it is in- 
time . . . Eh? Very? H’m, yes . . 

He was really appalling. Again his wandering stare 
went rouncT the table, with an expression incredibly in- 
congruous with the words. It was as though he had 
borrowed those eyes from some idiot for the purpose of 
that visit. He still held Dona Rita’s hand, and, now and 
then, patted it. 


82 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“It’s d>3couraging,” he cooed. “And I believe not one 
of you here is a Frenchman. I don’t know what you are 
all about. It’s beyond me. But if we were a Republic 
— you know I am an old Jacobin, sans-culotte and ter- 
rorist — if this were a real Republic with the Conven- 
tion sitting and a Committee of Public Safety attending 
to national business, you would all get your heads cut 
off. Ha, ha . . .1 am joking, ha, ha! . . . and 

serve you right, too. Don’t mind my little joke.” 

While he was still laughing he released her hand and 
she leaned her head on it again without haste. She had 
never looked at him once. 

During the rather humiliating silence that ensued he 
got a leather cigar case like a small valise out of his 
pocket, opened it and looked with critical interest at the 
six cigars it contained. The tireless femme-de-chambre 
set down a tray with coffee cups on the table. We each 
(glad, I suppose, of something to do) took one, but he, 
to begin with, sniffed at his. Dona Rita continued lean- 
ing on her elbow, her lips closed in a reposeful expression 
of peculiar sweetness. There was nothing drooping in 
her attitude. Her face with the delicate carnation of a 
rose and downcast eyes was as if veiled in firm immobil- 
ity and was so appealing that I had an insane impulse to 
walk round and kiss the forearm on which it was leaning:, 
that strong, well-shaped forearm, gleaming not like mar- 
ble but with a living and warm splendour. So familiar 
had I become already with her in my thoughts! Of 
course I didn’t do anything of the sort. It was noth- 
ing uncontrollable, it was but a tender longing of a most 
respectful and purely sentimental kind. I performed the 
act in my thought quietly, almost solemnly, while the 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 8S 

creature with the silver hair leaned back in his chair, 
puflSng at his cigar, and began to speak again. 

It was all apparently very innocent talk. He informed 
his ^‘dear Rita” that he was really on his way to Monte 
Carlo. A lifelong habit of his at this time of the year; 
but he was ready to run back to Paris if he could do 
anything for his ''chere enfant,'' run back for a day, for 
two days, for three days, for any time; miss Monte Carlo 
this year altogether, if he could be of the slightest use 
and save her going herself. For instance he could see to 
it that proper watch was kept over the Pavilion stuffed 
with all these art treasures. What was going to happen 
to all those things? . . . Making herself heard for 

the first time Dona Rita murmured without moving that 
she had made arrangements with the police to have it 
properly watched. And I was enchanted by the almost 
imperceptible play of her lips. 

But the anxious creature was not reassured. He 
pointed out that things had been stolen out of the Lou- 
vre, which was, he dared say, even better watched. And 
there was that marvellous cabinet on the landing, black 
lacquer with silver herons, which alone would repay a 
couple of burglars. A wheelbarrow, some old sacking, 
and they could trundle it off under people’s noses. 

‘^Have you thought it all out?” she asked in a cold 
whisper, while we three sat smoking to give ourselves a 
countenance (it w^as certainly no enjoyment) and won- 
dering what we would hear next. 

No, he had not. But he confessed that for years and 
years he had been in love with that cabinet. And any- 
how what was going to happen to the things? The world 
was greatly exercised by that problem. He turned slight- 


84 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


ly his beautifully groomed white head so as to address 
Mr. Blunt directly. 

“I had the pleasure of meeting your mother lately.” 

Mr. Blunt took his time to raise his eyebrows and flash 
his teeth at him before he dropped negligently, “I can’t 
imagine where you could have met my mother.” 

“Why, at Bing’s, the curio-dealer,” said the other with 
an air of the heaviest possible stupidity. And yet there 
was something in these few words which seemed to imply 
that if Mr. Blunt was looking for trouble he would cer- 
tainly get it. “Bing was bowing her out of his shop, but 
he was so angry about something that he was quite rude 
even to me afterwards. I don’t think it’s very good for 
Madame votre mhe to quarrel with Bing. He is a Pari- 
sian personality. He’s quite a power in his sphere. All 
these fellows’ nerves are upset from worry as to what will 
happen to the Allegre collection. And no wonder they 
are nervous. A big art event hangs on your lips, my 
dear, great Rita. And by the way, you too ought to re- 
member that it isn’t wise to quarrel with people. W'^hat 
have you done to that poor Azzolati? Did you really tell 
him to get out and never come near you again, or some- 
thing awful like that? I don’t doubt that he was of use 
to you or to your king. A man who gets invitations to 
shoot with the President at Rambouillet! I saw him 
only the other evening; I heard he had been winning im- 
mensely at cards; but he looked perfeetly wretched, the 
poor fellow. He complained of your conduct — oh, very 
much! He told me you had been perfectly brutal with 
him. He said to me: ‘I am no good for anything, mon 
cher. The other day at Rambouillet, whenever I had a 
hare at the end of my gun I would think of her cruel 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


85 


words and my eyes would run full of tears. I missed 
every shot’ . . . You are not fit for diplomatic work, 

you know, ma chere. You are a mere child at it. When 
you want a middle-aged gentleman to do anything for 
you, you don’t begin by reducing him to tears. I should 
have thought any woman would have known that much. 
A nun would have known that much. What do you. say? 
Shall I run back to Paris and make it up for you with 
Azzolati?” 

He waited for her answer. The compression of his thin 
lips was full of significance. I was surprised to see our 
hostess shake her head negatively the least bit, for indeed 
by her pose, by the thoughtful immobility of her face 
she seemed to be a thousand miles away from us all, lost 
in an infinite reverie. 

He gave it up. ‘‘Well, I must be off. The express for 
Nice passes at four o’clock. I will be away about three 
weeks and then you shall see me again. Unless I strike 
a run of bad luck and get cleaned out, in which case you 
shall see me before then.” 

He turned to Mills suddenly. 

“Will your cousin come south this year, to that beau- 
tiful villa of his at Cannes?” 

Mills hardly deigned to answer that he didn’t know 
anything about his cousin’s movements. 

“A grand seigneur combined with a great connoisseur,” 
opined the other heavily. His mouth had gone slack and 
he looked a perfect and grotesque imbecile under his wig- 
like crop of white hair. Positively I thought he would 
begin to slobber. But he attacked Blunt next. 

“Are you on your way down, too? A little flut- 
ter ... It seems to me you haven’t been seen in 


86 


THE AKROW OF GOLD 


your usual Paris haunts of late. Where have you been 
all this time?” 

“Don’t you know where I have been?” said Mr. Blunt 
with great precision. 

“No, I only ferret out things that may be of some use 
to me,” was the unexpected reply, uttered with an air of 
perfect vacancy and swallowed by Mr. Blunt in blank 
silence. 

At last he made ready to rise from the table. “Think 
over what I have said, my dear Rita.” 

“It’s all over and done with,” was Dona Rita’s an- 
swer, in a louder tone than I had ever heard her use be- 
fore. It thrilled me while she continued: “I mean, this 
thinking.” She was back from the remoteness of her 
meditation, very much so indeed. She rose and moved 
away from the table inviting by a sign the other to follow 
her; which he did at once, yet slowly and as it were 
warily. 

It was a conference in the recess of a window. We 
three remained seated round the table from which the 
dark maid was removing the cups and the plates with 
brusque movements. I gazed frankly at Dona Rita’s 
profile, irregular, animated and fascinating in an unde- 
finable way, at her well -shaped head with the hair twisted 
high up and apparently held in its place by a gold ar- 
row with a jewelled shaft. We couldn’t hear what she 
said but the movement of her lips and the play of her 
features was full of charm, full of interest, expressing 
both audacity and gentleness. She spoke with fire with- 
out raising her voice. The man listened round-shouldered 
but seeming much too stupid to understand. I could 
see now and then that he was speaking, but he was in- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


87 


audible. At one moment Dona Rita turned her head to 
the room and called out to the maid, “ Give me my hand- 
bag off the sofa.” 

At this the other was heard plainly, “No, no,” and 
then a little lower, “You have no tact, Rita. . . .” 

Then came her argument in a low, penetrating voice 
which I caught, “Why not? Between such old friends.” 
However, she waved away the hand-bag, he calmed down, 
and their voices sank again. Presently I saw him raise 
her hand to his lips, while with her back to the room she 
continued to contemplate out of the window the bare 
and untidy garden. At last he went out of the room, 
throwing to the table an airy “ Bonjour, bonjour,” which 
was not acknowledged by any of us three. 


in 


M ills got up and approached the figure at the 
window. To my extreme surprise Mr. Blunt, 
after a moment of obviously painful hesitation, 
hastened out after the man with the white hair. 

In consequence of these movements I was left to my- 
self and I began to be uncomfortably conscious of it when 
Dofia Rita, near the window, addressed me in a raised 
voice. 

“We have no confidences to exchange, Mr. Mills and 

1.” 

I took this for an encouragement to join them. They 
were both looking at me. Dona Rita added, “Mr. Mills 
and I are friends from old times, you know.” 

Bathed in the softened reflection of the sunshine, 
which did not fall directly into the room, standing very 
straight with her arms down, before Mills, and with a 
faint smile directed to me she looked extremely young, 
and yet mature. There was even, for a moment, a slight 
dimple in her cheek. 

“How old, I wonder ?” I said, with an answering smile. 
“Oh, for ages, for ages,” she exclaimed hastily, frown- 
ing a little, then she went on addressing herself to 
Mills, apparently in continuation of what she was saying 
before. 

.“This man’s is an. extreme case, and yet per- 
haps it isn’t the worst. But that’s the sort of thing. I 
have no account to render to anybody, but I don’t want 
88 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 89 

to be dragged along all the gutters where that man picks 
up his living.” 

She had thrown her head back a little but there was no 
scorn, no angry flash under the dark-lashed eyelids. The 
words did not ring. I was struck for the flrst time by the 
even, mysterious quality of her voice. 

“Will you let me suggest,” said Mills, with a grave, 
kindly face, “that being what you are, you have nothing 
to fear?” 

“And perhaps nothing to lose,” she went on without 
bitterness. “No. It isn’t fear. It’s a sort of dread. 
You must remember that no nun could have had a more 
protected life. Henry Allegre had his greatness. When 
he faced the world he also masked it. He was big enough 
for that. He filled the whole field of vision for me.” 

“You found that enough?” asked Mills. 

“Why ask now?” she remonstrated. “The truth — 
the truth is that I never asked myself. Enough or not 
there was no room for anything else. He was the shadow 
and the light and the form and the voice. He would 
have it so. The morning he died they came to call me 
at four o’clock. I ran into his room bare-footed. He 
recognized me and whispered, ‘You are flawless.’ I was 
very frightened. He seemed to think, and then said very 
plainly, ‘Such is my character. I am like that.’ These 
were the last words he spoke. I hardly noticed them 
then. I was thinking that he was lying in a very uncom- 
fortable position and I asked him if I should lift him up 
a little higher on the pillows. You know I am very 
strong. I could have done it. I had done it before. He 
raised his hand off the blanket just enough to make a 
sign that he didn’t want to be touched. It was the last 


90 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


gesture he made. I hung over him and then — and then 
I nearly ran out of the house just as I was, in my night- 
gown. I think if I had been dressed I would have run 
out of the garden, into the street — run away altogether. 
I had never seen death. I may say I had never heard of 
it. I wanted to run from it.” 

She paused for a long, quiet breath. The harmonized 
sweetness and daring of her face was made pathetic by 
her downcast eyes. 

*‘Fuir la mort,” she repeated, meditatively, in her 
mysterious voice. 

Mills’ big head had a little movement, nothing more. 
Her glance glided for a moment towards me like a friendly 
recognition of my right to be there, before she began again. 

“ My life might have been described as looking at man- 
kind from a fourth floor window for years. When the 
end came it was like falling out of a balcony into the 
street. It was as sudden as that. Once I remember 
somebody was telling us in the Pavilion a tale about a 
girl who jumped down from a fourth floor win- 
dow. . . . For love, I believe,” she interjected very 

quickly, “and came to no harm. Her guardian angel 
must have slipped his wings under her just in time. He 
must have. But as to me, all I know is that I didn’t 
break anything — not even my heart. Don’t be shocked, 
Mr. Mills. It’s very likely that you don’t understand.” 

“Very likely,” Mills assented, unmoved. “But don’t 
be too sure of that.” 

“Henry Allegre had the highest opinion of your intelli- 
gence,” she said unexpectedly and with evident serious- 
ness. “But all this is only to tell you that when he was 
gone I found myself down there unhurt, but dazed, be- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


91 


wildered, not sufficiently stunned. It so happened that 
that creature was somewhere in the neighbourhood. 
How he found out . . . But it’s his business to find 

out things. And he knows, too, how to worm his way in 
anywhere. Indeed, in the first days he was useful and 
somehow he made it look as if Heaven itself had sent 
him. In my distress I thought I could never sufficiently 
repay . . . Well, I have been paying ever since.” 

“What do you mean.!*” asked Mills softly. “In hard 
cash?” 

“Oh, it’s really so little,” she said. “I told you it 
wasn’t the worst case. I stayed on in that house from 
which I nearly ran away in my nightgown. I stayed on 
because I didn’t know what to do next. He vanished as 
he had come on the track of something else, I suppose. 
You know he really has got to get his living some way or 
other. But don’tjthink I was deserted. On the con- 
trary. People were coming and going, all sorts of people 
that Henry All^gre used to know — or had refused to 
know. I had a sensation of plotting and intriguing 
around me all the time. I was feeling morally bruised, 
sore all over, when, one day, Don Rafael de Villarel sent 
in his card. A grandee. I didn’t know him, but, as you 
are aware, there was hardly a personality of mark or po- 
sition that hasn’t been talked about in the Pavilion be- 
fore me. Of him I had only heard that he was a very 
austere and pious person, always at Mass, and that sort 
of thing. I saw a frail little man with a long; yellow 
face and sunken fanatical eyes, an Inquisitor, an un- 
frocked monk. One missed a rosary from his thin fingers. 
He gazed at me terribly and I couldn’t imagine what he 
might want. I waited for him to pull out a crucffix and 


92 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


sentence me to the stake there and then. But no; he 
dropped his eyes and in a cold, righteous sort of voice 
informed me that he had called on behalf of the prince 
— he called him His Majesty. I was amazed by the 
change. I wondered now why he didn’t slip his hands 
into the sleeves of his coat, you know, as begging Friars 
do when they come for a subscription. He explained 
that the Prince asked for permission to call and offer me 
his condolences in person. We had seen a lot of him our 
last two months in Paris that year. Henry Allegre had 
taken a fancy to paint his portrait. He used to ride with 
us nearly every morning. Almost without thinking I 
said I should be pleased. Don Rafael was shocked at 
my want of formality, but bowed to me in silence, very 
much as a monk bows, from the waist. If he had only 
crossed his hands flat on his chest it would have been 
perfect. Then, I don’t know why, something moved me 
to make him a deep curtsey as he backed out of the 
room, leaving me suddenly impressed, not only with him 
but with myself, too. I had my door closed to everybody 
else that afternoon and the Prince came, with a very 
proper sorrowful face, but five minutes after he got into 
the room he was laughing as usual, made the whole little 
house ring with it. You know his big, irresistible 
laugh. , . .” 

“No,” said Mills, a little abruptly, “I have never 
seen him.” 

“No,” she said surprised, “and yet you . . .” 

“I understand,” interrupted Mills. “All this is pure- 
ly accidental. You must know that I am a solitary man 
of books but with a secret taste for adventure which 
somehow came out; surprising even me.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 93 

She listened with that enigmatic, still, under the eye- 
hds glance, and a friendly turn of the head. 

“I know you for a frank and loyal gentleman. . 
Adventure — and books? Ah, the books! Haven’t I 
turned stacks of them over! Haven’t I? . . 

“Yes,” murmured Mills. “That’s what one does.” 

She put out her hand and laid it lightly on Mills’ 
sleeve. 

“Listen, I don’t need to justify myself, but if I had 
known a single woman in the world, if I had only had the 
opportunity to observe a single one of them, I would 
have been perhaps on my guard. But you know I hadn’t. 
The only woman I had anything to do with, was myself, 
and they say that one can’t know oneself. It never en- 
tered my head to be on my guard against his warmth 
and his terrible obviousness. You and he were the only 
two, infinitely different, people, who didn’t approach me 
as if I had been a precious object in a collection, an ivory 
carving or a piece of Chinese porcelain. That’s why I 
have kept you in my memory so well. O! you were not 
obvious! As to him — I soon learned to regret I was 
not some object, some beautiful, carved object of bone 
or bronze; a rare piece of porcelain, Pate dure, not pdie 
tendre. A pretty specimen.” 

“Rare, yes. Even unique,” said Mills, looking at her 
steadily with a smile. “But don’t try to depreciate your- 
self. You were never pretty. You are not pretty. You 
are worse.” 

Her narrow eyes had a mischievous gleam. “Do you 
find such sayings in your books?” she asked. 

“As^a matter of fact I have,” said Mills, with a little 
laugh, “found this one in a book.* It was a woman who 


94 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


said that of herself. A woman far from common, who 
died some few years ago. She was an actress. A great 
artist.” 

“A great! . . . Lucky person! She had that ref- 

uge, that garment, while I stand here with nothing to 
protect me from evil fame; a naked temperament for any 
wind to blow upon. Yes, greatness in art is a protection. 
I wonder if there would have been anything in me if I 
had tried? But Henry Allegre would never let me try. 
He told me that whatever I could achieve would never 
be good enough for what I was. The perfeetion of flat- 
tery! Was it that he thought I had no talent of any 
sort? It’s possible. He would know. I’ve had the idea 
since that he was jealous. He wasn’t jealous of mankind 
any more than he was afraid of thieves for his collection; 
but he may have been jealous of what he could see in 
me, of some passion that could be aroused. But if so he 
never repented. I shall never forget his last words. He 
saw me standing beside his bed, defenceless, symbolic 
and forlorn, and all he found to say was, ‘Well, I am like 
that.’” 

I forgot myself in watching her. I had never seen any- 
body speak with less play of facial muscles. In the ful- 
ness of its life her face preserved a sort of immobility. 
The words seemed to form themselves, fiery or pathetic, 
in the air, outside her lips. Their design was hardly dis- 
turbed; a design of sweetness, gravity, and force as if 
born from the inspiration of some artist; for I had 
never seen anything to come up to it in nature before 
or since. 

All this was part of the enchantment she cast over me; 
and I seemed to notice that Mills had the aspect of a 


|THE ARROW OF GOLD 95 

man under a spell. If he too, was a captive then I had 
no reason to feel ashamed of my surrender. 

"‘And you know,” she began again abruptly, “that I 
have been accustomed to all the forms of respect.” 

“That’s true,” murmured Mills, as if involuntarily. 

/ “Well, yes,” she reaflSrmed. “My instinct may have 
told me that my only protection was obscurity, but I 
didn’t know how and where to find it. Oh, yes, I had 
that instinct . . . But there were other instincts 

and . . . How am I to tell you? I didn’t know how 

to be on guard against myself, either. Not a soul to 
speak to, or to get a warning from. Some woman soul 
that would have known, in which perhaps I could have 
seen my own reflection. I assure you the only woman 
that ever addressed me directly, and that was in writing, 
was . . .” 

She glanced aside, saw Mr. Blunt returning from the 
hall and added rapidly in a lowered voice, 

“His mother.” 

The bright, mechanical smile of Mr. Blunt gleamed at 
us right down the room, but he didn’t, as it were, follow 
it in his body. He swerved to the nearest of the two big 
fireplaces and finding some cigarettes on the mantelpiece, 
remained leaning on his elbow in the warmth of the 
bright wood fire. I noticed then a bit of mute play. The 
heiress of Henry Allegre, who could secure neither ob- 
scurity nor any other alleviation to that invidious posi- 
tion, looked as if she would speak to Blunt from a dis- 
tance; but in a moment the confident eagerness of her 
face died out as if killed by a sudden thought. I didn’t 
know then her shrinking from all falsehood and eva- 
sion; her dread of insincerity and disloyalty of every kind. 


96 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


But even then I felt that at the very last moment her 
being had recoiled before some shadow of a suspicion. 
And it occurred to me, too, to wonder what sort of busi- 
ness Mr. Blunt could have had to transact with our odious 
visitor, of a nature so urgent as to make him run out 
after him into the hall? Unless to beat him a little 
with one of the sticks that were to be found there? White 
hair so much like an expensive wig could not be consid- 
ered a serious protection. But it couldn’t have been 
that. The transaction, whatever it was, had been much 
too quiet. I must say that none of us had looked out of 
the window and that I didn’t know when the man did 
go or if he was gone at all. As a matter of fact he was 
already far away; and I may just as well say here that I 
never saw him again in my life. His passage across my 
field of vision was like that of other figures of that time: 
not to be forgotten, a little fantastic, infinitely enlighten- 
ing for my contempt, darkening for my memory which 
struggles still with the clear lights and the ugly shadows 
of those unforgotten days. 


IV 


I T WAS past four o’clock before I left the house, to- 
gether with Mills. Mr. Blunt, still in his riding cos- 
tume, escorted us to the very door. He asked us to 
send him the first fiacre we met on our way to town. 
‘‘It’s impossible to walk in this get-up through the 
streets,” he remarked, with his brilliant smile. 

At this point I propose to transcribe some notes I 
made at the time in little black books which I have 
hunted up in the litter of the past; very cheap, common 
little note-books that by the lapse of years have ac- 
quired a touching dimness of aspect, the frayed, worn- 
out dignity of documents. 

Expression on paper has never been my forte. My life 
had been a thing of outward manifestations. I never had 
been secret or even systematically taciturn about my 
simple occupations which might have been foolish but 
had never required either caution or mystery. But in 
those four hours since midday a complete change had 
come over me. For good or evil I left that house com- 
mitted to an enterprise that could not be talked about; 
which would have appeared to many senseless and per- 
haps ridiculous, but was certainly full of risks, and, apart 
from that, commanded discretion on the ground of sim- 
ple loyalty. It would not only close my lips but it would 
to a certain extent cut me off from my usual haunts and 
from the society of my friends; especially of the light- 
hearted, young, harum-scarum kind. This was unavoid- 
97 


98 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


able. It was because I felt myself thrown back upon my 
own thoughts and forbidden to seek relief amongst other 
lives — it was perhaps only for that reason at first that 
I started an irregular, fragmentary record of my days. 

I made these notes not so much to preserve the mem- 
ory (one cared not for any to-morrow then) but to help 
me to keep a better hold of the actuality. I scribbled 
them on shore and I scribbled them on the sea; and in 
both cases they are concerned not only with the nature 
of the facts but with the intensity of my sensations. It 
may be, too, that I learned to love the sea for itself only 
at that time. Woman and the sea revealed themselves 
to me together, as it were: two mistresses of life’s values. 
The illimitable greatness of the one, the unfathomable se- 
duction of the other working their immemorial spells from 
generation to generation fell upon my heart at last: a 
common fortune, an unforgettable memory of the sea’s 
formless might and of the sovereign charm in that woman’s 
form wherein there seemed to beat the pulse of divinity 
rather than blood. 

I begin here with the notes written at the end of that 
very day. 

— Parted with Mills on the quay. We had walked 
side by side in absolute silence. The fact is he is too old 
for me to talk to him freely. For all his sympathy and 
seriousness I don’t know what note to strike and I am 
not at all certain what he thinks of all this. As we shook 
hands at parting, I asked him how much longer he ex- 
pected to stay. And he answered me that it depended 
on R. She was making arrangements for him to cross 
the frontier. He wanted to see the very ground on which 
the Principle of Legitimacy was actually asserting itself 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


99 


arms in hand. It sounded to my positive mind the most 
fantastic thing in the world, this elimination of personal- 
ities from what seemed but the merest political, dynastic 
adventure. So it wasn’t Dona Rita, it wasn’t Blunt, it 
wasn’t the Pretender with his big infectious laugh, it 
wasn’t all that lot of politicians, archbishops, and gener-" 
als, of monks, guerrilleros, and smugglers by sea and land, 
of dubious agents and shady speculators and undoubted 
swindlers, who were pushing their fortunes at the risk of 
their precious skins. No. It was the Legitimist Princi- 
ple asserting itself! Well, I would accept the view but 
with one reservation. All the others might have been 
merged into the idea, but I, the latest recruit, I would 
not be merged in the Legitimist Principle. Mine was an 
act of independent assertion. Never before had I felt so 
intensely aware of my personality. But I said nothing of 
that to Mills. I only told him I thought we had better 
not be seen very often together in the streets. He agreed. 
Hearty handshake. Looked affectionately after his broad 
back. It never occurred to him to turn his head. What 
was I in comparison with the Principle of Legitimacy? 

Late that night I went in search of Dominic. That 
Mediterranean sailor was just the man I wanted. He 
had a great experience of all unlawful things that can be 
done on the seas and he brought to the practice of them 
much wisdom and audacity. That I didn’t know where 
he lived was nothing since I knew where he loved. The 
proprietor of a small, quiet cafe on the quay, a certain 
Madame Leonore, a woman of thirty-five with an open 
Roman face and intelligent black eyes, had captivated 
his heart years ago. In that cafe with our heads close 
together over a marble table, Dominic and I held an 


100 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


earnest and endless confabulation while Madame 
Leonore, rustling a black silk skirt, with gold ear- 
rings, with her raven hair elaborately dressed and 
something nonchalant in her movements, would take 
occasion, in passing to and fro, to rest her hand for a 
moment on Dominic’s shoulder. Later, when the little 
cafe had emptied itself of its habitual customers, mostly 
people connected with the work of ships and cargoes, she 
came quietly to sit at our table and looking at me very 
hard with her black, sparkling eyes asked Dominic famil- 
iarly what had happened to his Signorino. It was her 
name for me. I was Dominic’s Signorino. She knew me 
by no other; and our connection has always been some- 
what of a riddle to her. She said that I was somehow 
changed since she saw me last. In her rich voice she 
urged Dominic only to look at my eyes. I must have 
had some piece of luck come to me either in love or at 
cards, she bantered. But Dominic answered half in 
scorn that I was not of the sort that runs after that kind 
of luck. He stated generally that there were some young 
gentlemen very clever in inventing new ways of getting 
rid of their time and their money. However, if they 
needed a sensible man to help them he had no objection 
himself to lend a hand. Dominic’s general scorn for the 
beliefs, and activities, and abilities of upper-class people 
covered the Principle of Legitimacy amply; biit he could 
not resist the opportunity to exercise his special faculties 
in a field he knew of old. He had been a desperate smug- 
gler in his younger days. We settled the purchase of a fast 
sailing craft. Agreed that it must be a balancelle and 
something altogether out of the common. He knew of 
one suitable but she was in Corsica. Offered to start for 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


101 


Bastia by mailboat in the morning. All the time the 
handsome and mature Madame Leonore sat by, smiling 
faintly, amused at her great man joining like this in a 
frolic of boys. She said the last words of that evening: 
“You men never grow up,” touching lightly the grey 
hair above his temple. 

A fortnight later. 

. . . In the afternoon to the Prado. Beautiful day. 
At the moment of ringing at the door a strong emotion 
of an anxious kind. Why? Down the length of the 
dining-room in the rotunda part full of afternoon light 
Dona R., sitting cross-legged on the divan in the attitude 
of a very old idol or a very young child and surrounded 
by many cushions, waves her hand from afar pleasantly 
surprised, exclaiming: “What! Back already!” I give 
her all the details and we talk for two hours across a 
large brass bowl containing a little water placed between 
us, lighting cigarettes and dropping them, innumerable, 
puffed at, yet untasted in the overwhelming interest of 
the conversation. Found her very quick in taking the 
points and very intelligent in her suggestions. All 
formality soon vanished between us and before very 
long I discovered myself sitting cross-legged, too, while I 
held forth on the qualities of different Mediterranean 
sailing craft and on the romantic qualifications of Dom- 
inic for the task. I believe I gave her the whole history 
of the man, mentioning even the existence of Madame 
^ Leonore, since the little cafe would have to be the head- 
quarters of the marine part of the plot. 

She murmured, “Ah I Une belle Romaine,” thought- 
fully. She told me that she liked to hear people of that 
sort spoken of in terms of our common humanity. She 


102 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


observed also that she wished to see Dominic some day; 
to set her eyes for once on a man who could be abso- 
lutely depended on. She wanted to know whether he 
had engaged himself in this adventure solely for my sake. 

I said that no doubt it was partly that. We had been 
very close associates in the West Indies from where we 
had returned together, and he had a notion that I could 
be depended on, too. But mainly, I suppose, it was from 
taste. And there was in him also a fine carelessness as to 
what he did and a love of venturesome enterprise. 

“And you,” she said. “Is it carelessness, too?” 

“In a measure,” I said. “Within limits.” 

“And very soon you will get tired.” 

“W^hen I do I will tell you. But I may also get fright- 
ened. I suppose you know there are risks, I mean apart 
from the risk of life.” 

“As for instance,” she said. 

“For instance, being captured, tried, and sentenced to 
what they call ‘the galleys,’ in Ceuta.” 

“And all this from that love for . . .” 

“Not for Legitimacy,” I interrupted the inquiry light- 
ly. “But what’s the use asking such questions? It’s like 
asking the veiled figure of fate. It doesn’t know its own 
mind nor its own heart. It has no heart. But what if I 
were to start asking you — who have a heart and are 
not veiled to my sight?” She dropped her charming 
adolescent head, so firm in modelling, so gentle in ex- 
pression. Her uncovered neck was round like the shaft 
of a column. She wore the same wrapper of thick blue 
silk. At that time she seemed to live either in her riding 
habit or in that wrapper folded tightly round her and 
open low to a point in front. Because of the absence of 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


103 


all trimming round the neck and from the deep view of 
her bare arms in the wide sleeve this garment seemed to 
be put directly on her skin and gave one the impres- 
sion of one’s nearness to her body which would have been 
troubling but for the perfect unconsciousness of her man- 
ner. That day she carried no barbarous arrow in her 
hair. It was parted on one side, brushed back severely, 
and tied with a black ribbon, without any bronze mist 
about her forehead or temples. This smoothness added 
to the many varieties of her expression also that of child- 
like innocence. 

Great progress in our intimacy brought about uncon- 
sciously by our enthusiastic interest in the matter of our 
discourse and, in the moments of silence, by the sympa- 
thetic current of our thoughts. And this rapidly growing 
familiarity (truly, she had a terrible gift for it) had all 
the varieties of earnestness; serious, excited, ardent, 
ind even gay. She laughed in contralto; but her laugh 
was never very long; and when it had ceased, the silence 
of the room with the light dying in all its many windows 
seemed to lie about me warmed by its vibration. 

As I was preparing to take my leave after alongish pause 
into which we had fallen as into a vague dream, she came 
out of it with a start and a quiet sigh. She said, “I had 
forgotten myself.” I took her hand and was raising it 
naturally,’^ without premeditation, when I felt suddenly 
the arm to^which it belonged become insensible, passive, 
like a stuffed limb, and the whole woman go inanimate 
all over! Brusquely I dropped the hand before it reached 
my lips; and it was so lifeless that it fell heavily on to 
the divan. 

I remained standing before her. She raised to me not 


104 THE ARROW OF GOLD 

he/ eyes but her whole face, inquisitively — perhaps iia 
appeal. 

“No! This isn’t good enough for me,” I said. 

The last of the light gleamed in her long enigmatic 
eyes as if they were precious enamel in that shadowy 
head which in its immobility suggested a creation of a 
distant past: immortal art, not transient life. Her voice 
had a profound quietness. She excused herself. 

“It’s only habit — or instinct — or what you like. I 
have had to practice that in self-defence lest I should be 
tempted sometimes to cut the arm off.” 

I remembered the way she had abandoned this very 
arm and hand to the white-haired ruflBan. It rendered 
me gloomy and idiotically obstinate. 

“Very ingenious. But this sort of thing is of no use to 
me,” I declared. 

“Make it up,” suggested her mysterious voice, while 
her shadowy figure remained unmoved, indifferent 
amongst the cushions. 

I didn’t stir either. I refused in the same low tone. 

“No. Not before you give it to me yourself, some day.” 

“ Yes — some day,” she repeated in a breath in which 
there was no irony but rather hesitation, reluctance — 
what did I know? 

I walked away from the house in a curious state of 
gloomy satisfaction with myself. 

And this is the last extract. A month afterwards. 

— This afternoon going up to the Villa I was for the 
first time accompanied in my way by some misgivings. 
To-morrow I sail. 

First trip and therefore in the nature of a trial trip; 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


105 


and I can’t overcome a certain gnawing emotion, for it 
is a trip that mustn't fail. In that sort of enterprise there 
is no room for mistakes. Of all the individuals engaged 
in it will every one be intelligent enough, faithful enough, 
bold enough? Looking upon them as a whole it seems 
impossible; but as each has got only a limited part to play 
they may be found suflScient each for his particular trust. 
And will they be all punctual, I wonder? An enterprise 
that hangs on the punctuality of maaiy people, no mat- 
ter how well disposed and even heroic, hangs on a thread. 
This I have perceived to be also the greatest of Dominic’s 
concerns. He, too, wonders. And when he breathes his 
doubts the smile lurking under the dark curl of his mous- 
taches is not reassuring. 

But there is also something exciting in such specula- 
tions and the road to the Villa seemed to me shorter than 
ever before. 

Let in by the silent, ever-active, dark lady’s maid, who 
is always on the spot and always on the way somewhere 
else, opening the door with one hand, while she passes on, 
turning on one for a moment her quick, black eyes, 
which just miss being lustrous, as if someone had 
breathed on them lightly. 

On entering the long room I perceive Mills established 
in an armchair which he had dragged in front of the 
divan. I do the same to another and there we sit side 
by side facing R., tenderly amiable yet somehow distant 
among her cushions, with an immemorial seriousness in 
her long, shaded eyes and her fugitive smile hovering 
about but never settling on her lips. Mills, who is just 
back from over the frontier, must have been asking R. 
whether she had been worried again by her devoted 


106 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


friend with the white hair. At least I concluded so be- 
cause I found them talking of the heart-broken Azzolati. 
And after having answered their greetings I sit and lis- 
ten to Rita addressing Mills earnestly. 

“No, I assure you Azzolati had done nothing to me. 
I knew him. He was a frequent visitor at the Pavilion, 
though I, personally, never talked with him very much 
in Henry Allegre’s lifetime. Other men were more inter- 
esting, and he himself was rather reserved in his man- 
ner to me. He was an international politician and finan- 
cier — a nobody. He, like many others, was admitted 
only to feed and amuse Henry Allegre’s scorn of the 
world, which was insatiable — I tell you.” 

“Yes,” said Mills. “I can imagine.” 

“But I know. Often when we were alone Henry Alle- 
gre used to pour it into my ears. If ever anybody saw 
mankind stripped of its clothes as the child sees the king 
in the German fairy tale, it’s I! Into my ears! A child’s! 
Too young to die of fright. Certainly not old enough to 
understand — or even to believe. But then his arm was 
about me. I used to laugh, sometimes. Laugh! At this 
destruction — at these ruins!” 

“Yes,” said Mills, very steady before her fire. “But 
you have at your service the everlasting charm of life; 
you are a part of the indestructible.” 

“Am I? . . . But there is no arm about me 

now. The laugh! Where is my laugh? Give me back 
my laugh. . . . ” 

And she laughed a little on a low note. I don’t know 
about Mills, but the subdued shadowy vibration of it 
echoed in my breast which felt empty for a moment and 
like a large space that makes one giddy. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


107 


‘‘The laugh is gone out of my heart, which at any rate 
used to feel protected. That feeling’s gone, too. And I 
myself will have to die some day.” 

“Certainly,” said Mills in an unaltered voice. “As to 
this body you . . . ” 

“Oh, yes! Thanks. It’s a very poor jest. Change 
from body to body as travellers used to change horses at 
post houses. I’ve heard of this before. . . 

“I’ve no doubt you have,” Mills put on a submissive 
air “But are we to hear any more about Azzolati?” 

“You shall. Listen. I had heard that he was invited 
to shoot at Rambouillet — a quiet party, not one of these 
great shoots. I hear a lot of things. I wanted to have a 
certain information, also certain hints conveyed to a dip- 
lomatic personage who was to be there, too. A personage 
that would never let me get in touch with him though I 
had tried many times.” 

“Incredible!” mocked Mills solemnly. 

“The Personage mistrusts his own susceptibility. Born 
cautious,” explained Dona Rita crisply with the slightest 
possible quiver of her lips. “Suddenly I had the inspira- 
tion to make use of Azzolati, who had been reminding me 
by a constant stream of messages that he was an old 
friend. I never took any notice of those pathetic appeals 
before. But in this emergency I sat down and wrote a 
note asking him to come and dine with me in my hotel. 
I suppose you know I don’t live in the Pavilion. I can’t 
bear the Pavilion now. When I have to go there I begin 
to feel after an hour or so that it is haunted. I seem to 
catch sight of somebody I know behind columns, pass- 
ing through doorways, vanishing here and there. I hear 
light footsteps behind closed doors . . . My own!” 


108 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


Her eyes, her half parted lips, remained fixed till Mills 
suggested softly, “Yes, but Azzolati.” 

Her rigidity vanished like a flake of snow in the sun- 
shine. “Oh! Azzolati. It was a most solemn affair. It 
had occurred to me to make a very elaborate toilet. It 
was most successful. Azzolati looked positively scared 
for a moment as though he had got into the wrong suite 
of rooms. He had never before seen me en toilette, you 
understand. In the old days once out of my riding habit 
I would never dress. I draped myself, you remember. 
Monsieur Mills. To go about like that suited my indo- 
lence, my longing to feel free in my body as at that time 
when I used to herd goats . . . But never mind. 

My aim was to impress Azzolati. I wanted to talk to 
him seriously.” 

There was something whimsical in the quick beat of 
her eyelids and in the subtle quiver of her lips. “And 
behold! the same notion had occurred to Azzolati. Im- 
agine that for this tSte-a-tMe dinner the creature had 
got himself up as if for a reception at court. He dis- 
played a brochette of all sorts of decorations on the lapel 
of his /rac and had a broad ribbon of some order across 
his shirt front. An orange ribbon. Bavarian, I should 
say. Great Roman Catholic, Azzolati. It was always 
his ambition to be the banker of all the Bourbons in the 
world. The last remnants of his hair were dyed jet 
black and the ends of his moustache were like knitting 
needles. He was disposed to be as soft as wax in my 
hands. Unfortunately I had had some irritating inter- 
views during the day. I was keeping down sudden im- 
pulses to smash a glass, throw a plate on the floor, do 
something violent to relieve my feelings. His submissive 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


109 


attitude made me still more nervous. He was ready to 
do anything in the world for me providing that I would 
promise him that he would never find my door shut 
against him as long as he lived. You understand the 
impudence of it, don’t you? And his tone was positively 
abject, too. I snapped back at him that I had no door, 
that I was a nomad. He bowed ironically till his nose 
nearly touched his plate but begged me to remember 
that to his personal knowledge I had four houses of my 
own about the world. And you know this made me feel 
a homeless outcast more than ever — like a little dog 
lost in the street — not knowing where to go. I was 
ready to cry and there the creature sat in front of me 
with an imbecile smile as much as to say ‘here is a poser 
for you. . . . ’ I gnashed my teeth at him. Quietly, 

you know ... I suppose you two think that I am 
stupid.” 

She paused as if expecting an answer but we made no 
sound and she continued with a remark. 

“I have days like that. Often one must listen to false 
protestations, empty words, strings of lies all day long, 
so that in the evening one is not fit for anything, not 
even for truth if it comes in one’s way. That idiot 
treated me to a piece of brazen sincerity which I couldn’t 
stand. First of all he began to take me into his confi- 
dence; he boasted of his great affairs, then started groan- 
ing about his overstrained life which left him no time 
for the amenities of existence, for beauty, or sentiment, 
or any sort of ease of heart. His heart! He wanted me 
to sympathize with his sorrows. Of course I ought to 
have listened. One must pay for services. Only I was 
nervous and tir?d. He bored me. I told him at last that^ 


110 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


I was surprised that a man of such immense wealth 
should still keep on going like this reaching for more and 
more. I suppose he must have been sipping a good deal 
of wine while we talked and all at once he let out an 
atrocity which was too much for me. He had been 
moaning and sentimentalizing but then suddenly he 
showed me his fangs. ‘No,’ he cries, ‘you can’t imagine 
what a satisfaction it is to feel all that penniless, beggarly 
lot of the dear, honest, meritorious poor wriggling and slob- 
bering under one’s boots.’ f You may tell me that he is a 
contemptible animal anyhow, but you should have heard 
the tone! I felt my bare arms go cold like ice. A mo- 
ment before I had been hot and faint with sheer bore- 
dom. I jumped up from the table, rang for Rose, and 
told her to bring me my fur cloak. He remained in his 
chair leering at me curiously. "When I had the fur on 
my shoulders and the girl had gone out of the room I 
gave him the surprise of his life. ‘Take yourself off in- 
stantly,’ I said. ‘Go trample on the poor if you like but 
never dare speak to me again.’ At this he leaned his 
head on his arm and sat so long at the table shading his 
eyes with his hand that I had to ask, calmly — you 
know — whether he wanted me to have him turned out 
into the corridor. He fetched an enormous sigh. ‘I 
have only tried to be honest with you, Rita.’ But by 
the time he got to the door he had regained some of his 
impudence. ‘You know how to trample on a poor fellow, 
too,’ he said. ‘But I don’t mind being made to wriggle 
under your pretty shoes, Rita. I forgive you. I thought 
you were free from all vulgar sentimentalism and that 
you had a more independent mind. I was mistaken in 
you, that’s all.’ With that he pretends to dash a tear 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


111 


from his eye — crocodile! — and goes out, leaving me in 
my fur by the blazing fire, my teeth going like casta- 
nets. . . . Did you ever hear of anything so stupid 

as this affair?’’ she concluded in a tone of extreme can- 
dour and a profound unreadable stare that went far be- 
yond us both. And the stillness of her lips was so per- 
fect directly she ceased speaking that I wondered whether 
all this had come through them or only had formed itself 
in my mind. 

Presently she continued as if speaking for herself only. 

^‘It’s like taking the lids off boxes and seeing ugly 
toads staring at you. In every one. Every one. That’s 
what it is having to do with men more than mere — 
Good morning — Good evening. And if you try to avoid 
meddling with their lids, some of them will take them off 
themselves. And they don’t even know, they don’t even 
suspect what they are showing you. Certain confidences 
— they don’t see it — are the bitterest kind of insult. I 
suppose Azzolati imagines himself a noble beast of prey. 
Just as some others imagine themselves to be most delicate, 
noble, and refined gentlemen. And as likely as not they 
would trade on a woman’s troubles — and in the end 
make nothing of that either. Idiots!” 

The utter absence of all anger in this spoken medita- 
tion gave it a character of touching simplicity. And as 
if it had been truly only a meditation we conducted our- 
selves as though we had not heard it. Mills began to 
speak of his experiences during his visit to the army of 
the Legitimist King. And I discovered in his speeches 
that this man of books could be graphic and picturesque. 
His admiration for the devotion and bravery of the army 
was combined with the greatest distaste for what he had 


112 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


seen of the way its great qualities were misused. In the 
conduct of this great enterprise he had seen a deplorable 
levity of outlook, a fatal lack of decision, an absence of 
any reasoned plan. 

He shook his head. 

“I feel that you of all people. Dona Rita, ought to be 
told the truth. I don’t know exactly what you have at 
stake.” 

She was rosy like some impassive statue in a desert in 
the flush of the dawn. 

“Not my heart,” she said quietly. “You must believe 
that.” 

“I do. Perhaps it would have been better if 
you . . .” 

“No, Monsieur le Philosophe. It would not have been 
better. Don’t make that serious face at me,” she went on 
with tenderness in a playful note, as if tenderness had been 
her inheritance of all time and playfulness the very fibre 
of her being. “I suppose you think that a woman who 
has acted as I did and has not staked her heart on it 
is . . . How do you know to what the heart responds 

as it beats from day to day?” 

“I wouldn’t judge you. What am I before the 
knowledge you were born to. You are as old as the 
world.” 

She accepted this with a smile. I who was inno- 
cently watching them was amazed to discover how much 
a fleeting thing like that could hold of seduction with- 
out the help of any other feature and with that unchang- 
ing glance. 

“With me it is pun dionor. To my first independent 
friend.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 113 

‘'You were soon parted,” ventured Mills, while I sat 
still under a sense of oppression. 

“Don’t think for a moment that I have been scared 
off,” she said. “It is they who were frightened. I sup- 
pose you heard a lot of Headquarters gossip.^” 

“Oh, yes,” Mills said meaningly. “The fair and the 
dark are succeeding each other like leaves blown in the 
wind dancing in and out. I suppose you have noticed 
that leaves blown in the wind have a look of happi- 
ness.” 

“Yes,” she said, “that sort of leaf is dead. Then why 
shouldn’t it look happy? And so I suppose there is no 
uneasiness, no occasion for fears amongst the ‘responsi- 
bles.’” 

“Upon the whole not. Now and then a leaf seems as 
if it would stick. There is for instance Madame . . . ” 

“Oh, I don’t want to know, I understand it all, I am 
as old as the world.” 

“Yes,” said Mills thoughtfully, are not a leaf, 

you might have been a tornado yourself.” 

“Upon my word,” she said, “there was a time that 
they thought I could carry him off, away from them all 
— beyond them all. Verily, I am not very proud of 
their fears. There was nothing reckless there worthy of 
a great passion. There was nothing sad there worthy 
of a great tenderness.” 

“And is this the word of the Venetian riddle?” asked 
Mills, fixing her with his keen eyes. 

“If it pleases you to think so, Senor,” she said indiffer- 
ently. The movement of her eyes, their veiled gleam 
became mischievous when she asked, “And Don Juan 
Blunt, have you seen him over there?” 


114 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“I fancy he avoided me. Moreover, he is always with 
his regiment at the outposts. He is a most valorous 
captain. I heard some people describe him as fool- 
hardy.” 

“Oh, he needn’t seek death,” she said in an indefin- 
able tone. “I mean as a refuge. There will be nothing 
in his life great enough for that.” 

“You are angry. Y^ou miss him, I believe. Dona 
Rita.” 

“Angry? No! Weary. But of course it’s very incon- 
venient. I can’t very well ride out alone. A solitary 
amazon swallowing the dust and the salt spray of the 
Corniche promenade would attract too much attention. 
And then I don’t mind you two knowing that I am 
afraid of going out alone.” 

“Afraid?” we both exclaimed together. 

“You men are extraordinary. Why do you want me 
to be courageous? Why shouldn’t I be afraid? Is it 
because there is no one in the world to care what would 
happen to me?” 

There was a deep-down vibration in her tone for the 
first time. We had not a word to say. And she added 
after a long silence: 

“There is a very good reason. There is a danger.” 

With wonderful insight Mills affirmed at once: 

“Something ugly.” 

She nodded slightly several times. Then Mills said 
with conviction: 

“Ah! Then it can’t be anything in yourself. And if 
so . . .” 

I was moved to extravagant advice. 

“You should come out with me to sea then. There 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 115 

may be some danger there but there’s nothing ugly to 
fear.” 

She gave me a startled glance quite unusual v^ith her, 
more than wonderful to me; and suddenly as though she 
had seen me for the first time she exclaimed in a tone of 
compunction: 

‘‘Oh! And there is this one, too! Why! Oh, why 
should he run his head into danger for those things that 
will all crumble into dust before long?” 

I said: “ You won’t crumble into dust.” 

And Mills chimed in: 

“That young enthusiast will always have his sea.” 

We were all standing up now. She kept her eyes on 
me, and repeated with a sort of whimsical enviousness: 

“The sea! The violet sea — and he is longing to re- 
join it! . . .At night! Under the stars! 

A lover’s meeting,” she went on, thrilling me from head to 
foot with those two words, accompanied by a wistful 
smile pointed by a suspicion of mockery. She turned 
away. “And you, Monsieur Mills?” she asked. 

“I am going back to my books,” he declared with a 
very serious face. “My adventure is over.” 

“Each one to his love,” she bantered us gently. 
“Didn’t I love books, too, at one time! They seemed to 
contain all wisdom and hold a magic power, too. Tell me. 
Monsieur Mills, have you found amongst them in some 
black letter volume the power of foretelling a poor mortal’s 
destiny, the power to look into the future? Anybody’s 
future” . . . Mills shook his head . . . “What, 

not even mine?” she coaxed as if she really believed in a 
magic power to be found in books. 

Mills shook his head again. “No, I have not the 


116 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


power,” he said, “I am no more a great magician, than 
you are a poor mortal. You have your ancient spells. 
You are as old as the world. Of us two it’s you that are 
more fit to foretell the future of the poor mortals on 
whom you happen to cast your eyes.” 

At these words she cast her eyes down and in the mo- 
ment of deep silence I watched the slight rising and fall- 
ing of her breast. Then Mills pronounced distinctly: 

“Good-bye, old Enchantress.” 

They shook hands cordially. “Good-bye, poor Magi- 
cian,” she said. 

Mills made as if to speak but seemed to think better 
of it. Dona Rita returned my distant bow with a slight, 
charmingly ceremonious inclination of her body. 

“Bon voyage and a happy return,” she said formally. 

I was following Mills through the door when I heard 
her voice behind us raised in recall: 

“Oh, a moment . . . I forgot . . .” 

I turned round. The call was for me, and I walked 
slowly back wondering what she could have forgotten. 
She waited in the middle of the room with lowered head, 
with a mute gleam in her deep blue eyes. When I was 
near enough she extended to me without a word her bare 
white arm and suddenly pressed the back of her hand 
against my lips. I was too startled to seize it with 
rapture. It detached itself from my lips and fell slowly 
by her side. We had made it up and there was nothing 
to say. She turned away to the window and I hurried 
out of the room. 


\ 



PART THREE 

1 







I f 


( 


V)' 





I 


I T WAS on our return from that first trip that I took 
Dominic up to the Villa to be presented to Dona 
Rita. If she wanted to look on the embodiment of 
fidelity, resource, and courage, she could behold it all 
in that man. Apparently she was not disappointed. 
Neither was Dominic disappointed. During the half 
hour’s interview they got into touch with each other in 
a wonderful way as if they had some common and secret 
standpoint in life. Maybe it was their common lawless- 
ness, and their knowledge of things as old as the world. 
Her seduction, his recklessness, were both simple, mas- 
terful and, in a sense, worthy of each other. 

Dominic was, I won’t say awed by this interview. No 
woman could awe Dominic. But he was, as it were, ren- 
dered thoughtful by it, like a man who had not so much 
an experience as a sort of revelation vouchsafed to him. 
Later, at sea, he used to refer to La Senora in a particu- 
lar tone and I knew that henceforth his devotion was not 
for me alone. And I understood the inevitability of it 
extremely well. As to Dona Rita she, after Dominic left 
the room, had 'turned to me with animation and said: 
“But he is perfect, this man.” Afterwards she often 
asked after him and used to refer to him in conversation. 
More than once she said to me: “One would like to put 
the care of one’s personal safety into the hands of that 
icnan. He looks as if he simply couldn’t fail one.” I ad- 

119 


120 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


mitted that this was very true, especially at sea. Dom- 
inic couldn’t fail. But at the same time I rather cliaffed 
Rita on her preoccupation as to personal safety that so 
often cropped up in her talk. 

“One would think you were a crowned head in a revo- 
lutionary world,” I used to tell her. 

“That would be different. One should be standing 
then for something, either worth or not worth dying for. 
One could even run away then and be done with it. But 
I can’t run away unless I got out of my skin and left 
that behind. Don’t you understand? You are very stu- 
pid . . .” But she had the grace to add, “On pur- 

pose.” 

I don’t know about the on purpose. I am not certain 
about the stupidity. Her words bewildered one often 
and bewilderment is a sort of stupidity. I remedied it 
by simply disregarding the sense of what she said. The 
sound was there and also her poignant heart-gripping 
presence giving occupation enough to one’s faculties. In 
the power of those things over one there was mystery 
enough. It was more absorbing than the mere obscurity 
of her speeches. But I daresay she couldn’t understand 
that. 

Hence, at times, the amusing outbreaks of Lemper in 
word and gesture that only strengthened the natural, the 
invincible force of the spell. Sometimes the brass bowl 
would get upset or the cigarette box would fly up, drop- 
ping a shower of cigarettes on the floor. We would pick 
them up, re-establish everything, and fall into a long 
silence, so close that the sound of the first word would 
come with all the pain of a separation. 

It was at that time, too, that she suggested I should 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


121 


take up my quarters in her house in the street of the 
Consuls. There were certain advantages in that move. 
In my present abode my sudden absences might have 
been in the long run subject to comment. On the other 
hand, the house in the street of Consuls was a known out- 
post of Legitimacy. But then it was covered by the 
occult influence of her who was referred to in confidential 
talks, secret communications, and discreet whispers of 
Royalist salons as: “Madame de Lastaola.” 

That was the name which the heiress of Henry Allegre 
had decided to adopt when, according to her own expres- 
sion, she had found herself precipitated at a moment’s 
notice into the crowd of mankind. It is strange how the 
death of Henry Allegre, which certainly the poor man 
had not planned, acquired in my view the character of a 
heartless desertion. It gave one a glimpse of amazing 
egoism in a sentiment to which one could hardly give a 
name, a mysterious appropriation of one human being by 
another as if in defiance of unexpressed things and for an 
unheard of satisfaction of an inconceivable pride. If he 
had hated her he could not have flung that enormous for- 
tune more brutally at her head. And his unrepentant 
death seemed to lift for a moment the curtain on some- 
thing lofty and sinister like an Olympian’s caprice. 

Dona Rita said to me once with humorous resigna- 
tion: “You know, it appears that one must have a 
name. That’s what Henry All^gre’s man of business told 
me. He was quite impatient with me about it. But my 
name, amigo, Henry Allegre had taken from me like all 
the rest of what I had been once. All that is buried with 
him in his grave. It wouldn’t have been true. That is 
how I felt about it. So I took that one.’! She whispered 


122 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


to herself: “Lastaola,” not as if to test the sound but 
as if in a dream. 

To this day I am not quite certain whether it was the 
name of any human habitation, a lonely caserio with a 
half-effaced carving of a coat of arms over its door, or of 
some hamlet at the dead end of a ravine with a stony 
slope at the back. It might have been a hill for all I 
know or perhaps a stream. A wood, or perhaps a com- 
bination of all these: just a bit of the earth’s surface. 
Once I asked her where exactly it was situated and she 
answered, waving her hand cavalierly at the dead wall of 
the room: “Oh, over there.” I thought that this was 
all that I was going to hear but she added moodily, “I 
used to take my goats there, a dozen or so of them, for the 
day. From after my uncle had said his Mass till the 
ringing of the evening bell.” 

I saw suddenly the lonely spot, sketched for me some 
time ago by a few words from Mr. Blunt, populated 
by the agile, bearded beasts with cynical heads, and a 
little misty figure dark in the sunlight with a halo of di- 
shevelled rust-coloured hair about its head. 

The epithet of rust-coloured comes from her. It was 
really tawny. Once or twice in my hearing she had re- 
ferred to “my rust-coloured hair” with laughing vexa- 
tion. Even then it was unruly, abhorring the restraints 
of civilization, and often in the heat of a dispute getting 
into the eyes of Madame de Lastaola, the possessor of 
coveted art treasures, the heiress of Henry Allegre. She 
proceeded in a reminiscent mood, with a faint fiash of 
gaiety all over her face, except her dark blue eyes that 
moved so seldom out of their fixed scrutiny of things in- 
visible to other human beings. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


12S 


“The goats were very good. We clambered amongst 
the stones together. They beat me at that game. I used 
to catch my hair in the bushes.” 

“Your rust-coloured hair,” I whispered. 

“Yes, it was always this colour. And I used to leave 
bits of my frock on thorns here and there. It was pretty 
thin, I can tell you. There wasn’t much at that time be- 
tween my skin and the blue of the sky. My legs were as 
sunburnt as my face; but really I didn’t tan very much. 
I had plenty of freckles though. There were no looking 
glasses in the Presbytery but uncle had a piece not bigger 
than my two hands for his shaving. One Sunday I crept 
into his room and had a peep at myself. And wasn’t 1 
startled to see my own eyes looking at me! But it was 
fascinating, too. I was about eleven years old then, and I 
was very friendly with the goats, and I was as shrill as a 
cicada and as slender as a match. Heavens! When I 
overhear myself speaking sometimes, or look at my limbs, 
it doesn’t seem to be possible. And yet it is the same 
one. I do remember every single goat. They were very 
clever. Goats are no trouble really; they don’t scatter 
much. Mine never did even if I had to hide myself out 
of their sight for ever so long.” 

It was but natural to ask her why she wanted to hide, 
and she uttered vaguely what was rather a comment on 
my question: 

“It was like fate.” But I ch^se to take it otherwise, 
teasingly, because we were often like a pair of children. 

“Oh, really,” I said, “you talk like a pagan. What 
could you know of fate at that time? What was it like? 
Did it come down from Heaven?” 

“Don’t be stupid. It used to come along a cart-track 


124 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


that was there and it looked like a boy. Wasn’t he a lit* 
tie devil though. You understand, I couldn’t know that. 
He was a wealthy cousin of mine. Round there we are 
all related, all cousins — as in Brittany. He wasn’t 
much bigger than myself but he was older, just a boy in 
blue breeches and with good shoes on his feet, which of 
course interested and impressed me. He yelled to me 
from below, I screamed to him from above, he came up 
and sat down near me on a stone, never said a word, let 
me look at him for half an hour before he condescended 
to ask me who I was. And the airs he gave himself! He 
quite intimidated me sitting there perfectly dumb. I 
remember trying to hide my bare feet under the edge of 
my skirt as I sat below him on the ground. 

“C’est comique, eh!” she interrupted herself to com- 
ment in a melancholy tone. I looked at her sympatheti- 
cally and she went on: 

“He was the only son from a rich farmhouse two miles 
down the slope. In winter they used to send him to school 
at Tolosa. He had an enormous opinion of himself; he 
was going to keep a shop in a town by and by and he was 
about the most dissatisfied creature I have ever seen. He 
had an unhappy mouth and unhappy eyes and he was al- 
ways wretched about something; about the treatment he 
received, about being kept in the country and chamed to 
work. He was moaning and complaining and threaten- 
ing all the world, including his father and mother. He 
used to curse God, yes, that boy, sitting there on a piece 
of rock like a wretched little Prometheus with a sparrow 
pecking at his miserable little liver. And the grand 
scenery of moimtains all round, ha, ha, ha!” 

She laughed in contralto: a penetrating sound Jwith 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 125 

something generous in it; not infectious, but in others 
provoking a smile. 

“Of course I, poor little animal, I didn’t know what to 
make of it, and I was even a little frightened. But at 
first because of his miserable eyes I was sorry for him, 
almost as much as if he had been a sick goat. But, 
frightened or sorry, I don’t know how it is, I always 
wanted to laugh at him, too. I mean from the very first 
day when he let me admire him for half an hour. Yes, 
even then I had to put my hand over my mouth more 
than once for the sake of good manners, you imderstand. 
And yet, you know, I was never a laughing child. 

“One day he came up and sat down very dignified a 
little bit away from me and told me he had been thrashed 
for wandering in the hills. 

“‘To be with me,’ I asked. And he said: ‘To be 
with you! No. My people don’t know what I do.’ I 
can’t tell why, but I was annoyed. So instead of raising 
a clamour of pity over him, which I suppose he expected 
me to do, I asked him if the thrashing hurt very much. 
He got up, he had a switch in his hand, and walked up 
to me, saying, ‘I will soon show you.’ I went stiff with 
fright; but instead of slashing at me he dropped down 
by my side and kissed me on the cheek. Then he did it 
again, and by that time I was gone dead all over and he 
could have done what he liked with the corpse but he 
left off suddenly and then I came to life again and I bolt- 
ed away. Not very far. I couldn’t leave the goats alto- 
gether. He chased me round and about the rocks, but of 
course I was too quick for him in his nice town boots. 
When he got tired of that game he started throwing 
stones. After that he made my life very lively for me. 


126 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


Sometimes he used to come on me unawares and then I 
had to sit still and listen to his miserable ravings, because 
he would catch me round the waist and hold me very tight. 
And yet I often felt inclined to laugh. But if I caught 
sight of him at a distance and tried to dodge out of the way 
he would start stoning me into a shelter I knew of and then 
sit outside with a heap of stones at hand so that I daren’t 
show the end of my nose for hours. He would sit there 
and rave and abuse me till I would burst into a crazy 
laugh in my hole; and then I could see him through the 
leaves rolling on the ground and biting his fists with 
rage. Didn’t he hate me! At the same time I was often 
terrified. I am convinced now that if I had started cry- 
ing he would have rushed in and perhaps strangled me 
there. Then as the sun was about to set he would make 
me swear that I would marry him when I was grown up. 
‘Swear, you little wretched beggar,’ he would yell to me. 
And I would swear. I was hungry, and I didn’t want to 
be made black and blue all over with stones. Oh, I 
swore ever so many times to be his wife. Thirty times a 
month for two months. I couldn’t help myself. It was no 
use complaining to my sister Therese. When I showed 
her my bruises and tried to tell her a little about my 
trouble she was quite scandalized. She called me a sin- 
ful girl, a shameless creature. I assure you it puzzled 
my head so that, between Therese my sister and Jos6 
the boy, I lived in a state of idiocy almost. But luckily 
at the end of the two months they sent him away from 
home for good. Curious story to happen to a goatherd 
living all her days out under God’s eye, as my uncle the 
Cura might have said. My sister Therese was keeping 
house in the Presbytery. She’s a terrible person.” / ■ 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


127 


“I have heard of your sister Therese,” I said. 

“Oh, you have! Of my big sister Therese, six, ten 
years older than myself perhaps? She just comes a little 
above my shoulder, but then I was always a long thing. 
I never knew my mother. I don’t even know how she 
looked. There are no paintings or photographs in our 
farmhouses amongst the hills. I haven’t even heard her 
described to me. I believe I was never good enough to 
be told these things. Therese decided that I was a lump 
of wickedness, and now she believes that I will lose my 
soul altogether unless I take some steps to save it. Well, 
I have no particular taste that way. I suppose it is an- 
noying to have a sister going fast to eternal perdition, 
but there are compensations. The funniest thing is that 
it’s Therese, I believe, who managed to keep me out of 
the Presbytery when I went out of my way to look in on 
them on my return from my visit to the Quartet Real last 
year. I couldn’t have stayed much more than half an hour 
with them anyway, but still I would have liked to get over 
the old doorstep. I am certain that Therese persuaded 
my uncle to go out and meet me at the bottom of the hill. 
I saw the old man a long way off and I understood how 
it was. I dismounted at once and met him on foot. We 
had half an hour together walking up and down the 
road. He is a peasant priest, he didn’t know how to 
treat me. And of course I was uncomfortable, too. 
There wasn’t a single goat about to keep me in coimte- 
nance. I ought to have embraced him. I was always 
fond of the stern, simple old man. But he drew himself 
up when I approached him and actually took off his hat 
to me. So simple as that! I bowed my head and asked 
for his blessing. And he said: ‘I would never refuse a 


128 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


blessing to a good Legitimist/ So stern as that! And 
when I think that I was perhaps the only girl of the 
family or in the whole world, that he ever in his priest’s 
life patted on the head! When I think of that! . . . 

I believe at that moment I was as wretched as he was 
himself. I handed him an envelope with a big red seal 
which quite startled him. I had asked the Marquis de 
Villarel to give me a few words for him, because my 
uncle has a great influence in his district; and the Mar- 
quis penned with his own hand some compliments and 
an inquiry about the spirit of the population. My uncle 
read the letter, looked up at me with an air of mournful 
awe, and begged me to tell his Excellency that the peo- 
ple were all for God, their lawful King and their old 
privileges. I said to him then, after he had asked me 
about the health of His Majesty in an awfully gloomy 
tone — said then: ‘There is only one thing that remains 
for me to do, uncle, and that is to give you two pounds 
of the very best snuff I have brought here for you.’ 
What else could I have got for the poor old man.'^ I had 
no trunks with me. I had to leave behind a spare pair 
of shoes in the hotel to make room in my little bag for 
that snuff. And fancy! That old priest absolutely 
pushed the parcel away. I could have thrown it at his 
head; but I thought suddenly of that hard, prayerful 
life, knowing nothing of any ease or pleasure in the 
world, absolutely nothing but a pinch of snuff now and 
then. I remembered how wretched he used to be when 
he lacked a copper or two to get some snuff with. My 
face was hot with indignation, but before I could fly out 
at him I remembered how simple he was. So I said with 
great dignity that as the present came from the King 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


129 


and as he wouldn’t receive it from my hand there was 
nothing else for me to do but to throw it into the brook; 
and I made as if I were going to do it, too. He shouted: 
‘Stay, unhappy girl! Is it really from His Majesty, 
whom God preserve.^’ I said contemptuously, ‘Of 
course.’ He looked at me with great pity in his eyes, 
sighed deeply, and took the little tin from my hand. I 
suppose he imagined me in my abandoned way wheedling 
the necessary cash out of the King for the purchase of 
that snuff. You can’t imagine how simple he is. Noth- 
ing was easier than to deceive him; but don’t imagine I 
deceived him from the vainglory of a mere sinner. I 
lied to the dear man, simply because I couldn’t bear the 
idea of him being deprived of the only gratification his 
big, ascetic, gaunt body ever knew on earth. As I 
mounted my mule to go away he murmured coldly: 
‘God guard you, Senora!’ Senora! What sternness! 
We were off a little way already when his heart softened 
and he shouted after me in a terrible voice: ‘The road 
to Heaven is repentance!’ And then, after a silence, 
again the great shout ‘Repentance!’ thundered after me. 
Was that sternness or simplicity, I wonder? Or a mere 
unmeaning superstition, a mechanical thing? If there 
lives anybody completely honest in this world, surely it 
must be my uncle. And yet — who knows? 

“Would you guess what was the next thing I did? 
Directly I got over the frontier I wrote from Bayonne 
asking the old man to send me out my sister here. I 
said it was for the service of the King. You see, I had 
thought suddenly of that house of mine in which you 
once spent the night talking with Mr. Mills and Don 
Juan Blunt. I thought it would do extremely well for 


ISO 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


Carlist oflScers coming this way on leave or on a mission. 
In hotels they might have been molested, but I knew 
that I could get protection for my house. Just a word 
from the ministry in Paris to the Prefect. But I wanted 
a woman to manage it for me. And where was I to find 
a trustworthy woman? How was I to know one when 
I saw her? I don’t know how to talk to women. Of 
course my Rose would have done for me that or any- 
thing else; but what could I have done myself without 
her? She has looked after me from the first. It was 
Henry Allegre who got her for me eight years ago. I 
don’t know whether he meant it for a kindness but she’s 
the only human being on whom I can lean. She knows 
. What doesn’t she know about me! She has 
never failed to do the right thing for me unasked. I 
couldn’t part with her. And I couldn’t think of anybody 
else but my sister. 

“After all it was somebody belonging to me. But it 
seemed the wildest idea. Yet she came at once. Of 
course I took care to send her some money. She likes 
money. As to my uncle there is nothing that he wouldn’t 
have given up for the service of the Eang. Rose went 
to meet her at the railway station. She told me after- 
wards that there had been no need for me to be anxious 
about her recognizing Mademoiselle Therese. There was 
nobody else in the train that could be mistaken for her. 
I should think not! She had made for herself a dress of 
some brown stuff like a nun’s habit and had a crooked 
stick and carried all her belongings tied up in a handker- 
chief. She looked like a pilgrim to a saint’s shrine. Rose 
took her to the house. She asked when she saw it: ‘And 
does this big place really belong to our Rita?’ My maid. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


131 


of course said that it was mine. ‘And how long did our 
Rita live here?’ — ‘Madame has never seen it unless 
perhaps the outside, as far as I know. I believe Mr. 
Allegre lived here for some time when he was a young 
man.’ — ‘The sinner that’s dead?’ — ‘Just so,’ says 
Rose. You know nothing ever startles Rose. ‘Well, 
his sins are gone with him,’ said my sister, and began to 
make herself at home. 

“Rose was going to stop with her for a week but on 
the third day she was back with me with the remark that 
Mile. Therese knew her way about very well already and 
preferred to be left to herself. Some little time after- 
wards I went to see that sister of mine. The first thing 
she said to me, ‘I wouldn’t have recognized you, Rita,’ 
and I said, ‘What a funny dress you have, Therese, more 
fit for the portress of a convent than for this house.’— 
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and unless you give this house to me, 
Rita, I will go back to our country. I will have nothing 
to do with your life, Rita. Your life is no secret for me.’ 

“I was going from room to room and Therese was 
following me. ‘I don’t know that my life is a secret to 
anybody,’ I said to her, ‘but how do you know anything 
about it?’ And then she told me that it was through a 
cousin of ours, that horrid wretch of a boy, you know. He 
had finished his schooling and was a clerk in a Spanish 
commercial house of some kind, in Paris, and apparently 
had made it his business to write home whatever he could 
hear about me or ferret out from those relations of mine 
with whom I lived as a girl. I got suddenly very furious, 
I raged up and down the room (we were alone upstairs), 
and Therese scuttled away from me as far as the door. 
\ heard her say to herself ‘It’s the evil spirit in her that 


132 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


makes her like this.’ She was absolutely convinced of 
that. She made the sign of the cross in the air to protect 
herself. I was quite astounded. And then I really 
couldn’t help myself. I burst into a laugh. I laughed and 
laughed; I really couldn’t stop till Therese ran away. I 
went downstairs still laughing and found her in the hall 
with her face to the wall and her fingers in her ears kneeling 
in a corner. I had to pull her out by the shoulders from 
there. I don’t think she was frightened; she was only 
shocked. But I don’t suppose her heart is desperately 
bad, because when I dropped into a chair feeling very 
tired she came and knelt in front of me and put her arms 
round my waist and entreated me to cast off from me my 
evil ways with the help of saints and priests. Quite a 
little programme for a reformed sinner. I got away at 
last. I left her sunk on her heels before the empty chair 
looking after me. ‘I pray for you every night and 
morning, Rita,’ she said. — ‘Oh, yes. I know you are 
a good sister,’ I said to her. I was letting myself out 
when she called after me, ‘And what about this house, 
Rita?’ I said to her, ‘Oh, you may keep it till the day 
I reform and enter a convent.’ The last I saw of her 
she was still on her knees looking after me with her mouth 
open. I have seen her since several times, but our inter- 
course is, at any rate on her side, as of a frozen nun with 
some great lady. But I believe she really knows how to 
make men comfortable. Upon my word I think she likes 
to look after men. They don’t seem to be such great 
sinners as women are. I think you could do worse than 
take up your quarters at number 10. She will no doubt 
develop a saintly sort of affection for you, too.” 

I don’t know that the prospect of becoming a favourite 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


133 


of Dona Rita’s peasant sister was very fascinating to me. 
If I went to live very willingly at No. 10 it was because 
everything connected with Dona Rita had for me a 
peculiar fascination. She had only passed through the 
house once as far as I knew; but it was enough. She was 
one of those beings that leave a trace. I am not unreason- 
able — I mean for those that knew her. That is, I sup- 
pose, because she was so unforgettable. Let us remember 
the tragedy of Azzolati the ruthless, the ridiculous finan- 
cier with a criminal soul (or shall we say heart) and facile 
tears. No wonder, then, that for me, who may flatter 
myself without undue vanity with being much finer than 
that grotesque international intriguer, the mere knowl- 
edge that Dona Rita had passed through the very rooms 
in which I was going to live between the strenuous times 
of the sea-expeditions, was enough to fill my inner being 
with a great content. Her glance, her darkly brilliant 
blue glance, had run over the walls of that room which 
most likely would be mine to slumber in. Behind me, 
somewhere near the door, Therese, the peasant sister, 
said in a funnily compassionate tone and in an amazingly 
landlady-of-a-boarding-house spirit of false persuasive- 
ness: 

‘‘You will be very comfortable here, Senor. It is so 
peaceful here in the street. Sometimes one may think 
oneself in a village. It’s only a hundred and twenty -five 
francs for the friends of the King. And I shall take such 
good care of you that your very heart will be able to rest.” 


n' 

D ona RITA was curious to know how I got on 
with her peasant sister and all I could say in 
return for that enquiry was that the peasant 
sister was in her own way amiable. At this she clicked 
her tongue amusingly and repeated a remark she had 
made before: “She likes young men. The younger the 
better.” The mere thought of tliose two women being 
sisters aroused one’s wonder. Physically they were al- 
together of different design. It was also the difference 
between living tissue of glowing loveliness with a divine 
breath, and a hard hollow figure of baked clay. 

Indeed Therese did somehow resemble an achievement, 
wonderful enough in its way, in unglazed earthenware. 
The only gleam perhaps that one could find on her was 
that of her teeth, which one used to get between her dull 
lips unexpectedly, startlingly, and a little inexplicably, 
because it was never associated with a smile. She smiled 
with compressed mouth. It was indeed difficult to con- 
ceive of those two birds coming from the same nest. And 
yet . . . Contrary to what generally happens, it 

was when one saw those two women together that one 
lost all belief in the possibility of their relationship near or 
far. It extended even to their common humanity. One, 
as it were, doubted it. If one of the two was represen- 
tative, then the other was either something more or less 
than human. One wondered whether these two women 
belonged to the same scheme of creation. One was 

134 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


135 


secretly <tmazed to see them standing together, speaking 
to each other, having words in common, understanding 
each other. And yet! . . . Our psychological sense 

is the crudest of all, we don’t know, we don’t perceive 
how superficial we are. The simplest shades escape us, 
the secret of changes, of relations. No, upon the whole, 
the only feature (and yet with enormous differences) 
which Therese had in common with her sister, as I told 
Dona Rita, was amiability. 

“For, you know, you are a most amiable person your- 
self,” I went on. “It’s one of your characteristics, of 
course much more precious than in other people. You 
transmute the commonest traits into gold of your own; 
but after all there are no new names. You are amiable. 
You were most amiable to me when I first saw you.” 

“Really. I was not aware. Not specially. . . .” 

“I had never the presumption to think that it was 
special. Moreover, my head was in a whirl. I was lost 
in astonishment first of all at what I had been listening to 
all night. Your history, you know, a wonderful tale with 
a flavour of wine in it and wreathed in clouds, with that 
amazing decapitated, mutilated dummy of a woman lurk- 
ing in a corner, and with Blunt’s smile gleaming through 
a fog, the fog in my eyes, from Mills’ pipe, you know. 
I was feeling quite inanimate as to body and frightfully 
stimulated as to mind all the time. I had never heard 
anything like that talk about you before. Of course I 
wasn’t sleepy, but still I am not used to do altogether 
without sleep like Blunt . . 

“Kept awake all night listening to my story!” She 
marvelled. 

“Yes. You don’t think I am complaining, do you? 


136 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Blunt in a 
ragged old jacket and a white tie and that incisive polite 
voice of his seemed strange and weird. It seemed as 
though he were inventing it all rather angrily. I had 
doubts as to your existence.” 

“Mr. Blunt is very much interested in my story.” | 

“Anybody would be,” I said. “I was. I didn’t sleep 
a wink. I was expecting to see you soon — and even 
then I had my doubts.” 

“As to my existence?” 

“It wasn’t exactly that, though of course I couldn’t 
tell that you weren’t a product of Captain Blunt’s sleep- 
lessness. He seemed to dread exceedingly to be left alone 
and your story might have been a device to detain 

us . . .” 

“He hasn’t enough imagination for that,” she said. 

“It didn’t occur to me. But there was Mills, who 
apparently believed in your existence. I could trust 
Mills. My doubts were about the propriety. I couldn’t 
see any good reason for being taken to see you. Strange 
that it should be my connection with the sea which 
brought me here to the Villa.” 

“Unexpected perhaps.” 

“No. I mean particularly strange and significant.” 

“Why?” 

“Because my friends are in the habit of telling me (and 
each other) that the sea is my only love. They were 
always chaffing me because they couldn’t see or guess in 
my life at any woman, open or secret . . . ” 

“And is that really so?” she inquired negligently. 

“ Why, yes. I don’t mean to say that I am like an inno- 
cent shepherd in one of those interminable stories of the 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


137 


eighteenth century. But I don’t throw the word love 
about indiscriminately. It may be all true about the 
sea; but some people would say that they love sausages.” 

“You are horrible.” 

“I am surprised.” 

“I mean your choice of words.” 

“And you have never uttered a word yet that didn’t 
change into a pearl as it dropped from your lips. At 
least not before me.” 

She glanced down deliberately and said, “This is bet- 
ter. But I don’t see any of them on the floor.” 

“It’s you who are horrible in the implications of your 
language. Don’t see any on the floor! Haven’t I caught 
up and treasured them all in my heart I am not the 
animal from which sausages are made.” 

She looked at me suavely and then with the sweetest 
possible smile breathed out the word: “No.” 

And we both laughed very loud. O! days of inno- 
cence! On this occasion we parted from each other on a 
light-hearted note. But already I had acquired the con- 
viction that there was nothing more lovable in the world 
than that woman; nothing more.lif e-giving, inspiring, and 
illuminating than the emanation of her charm. I meant 
it absolutely — not excepting the light of the sun. 

From this there was only one step further to take. 
The step into a conscious surrender; the open perception 
that this charm, warming like a flame, was also all-re- 
vealing like a great light; giving new depth to shades, 
new brilliance to colours, an amazing vividness to all 
sensations and vitality to all thoughts; so that all that 
had been lived before seemed to have been lived in a 
drab world and with a languid pulse.^ 


138 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


A great revelation this. I don’t mean to say it was 
soul-shaking. The soul was already a captive before 
doubt, anguish, or dismay could touch its surrender and 
its exaltation. But all the same the revelation turned 
many things into dust; and, amongst others, the sense of 
the careless freedom of my life. If that life ever had any 
purpose or any aim outside itself I would have said that 
it threw a shadow across its path. But it hadn’t. There 
had been no path. But there was a shadow, the insepa- 
rable companion of all light. No illumination can sweep 
all mystery out of the world. After the departed dark- 
ness the shadows remain, more mysterious because as if 
more enduring; and one feels a dread of them of which 
one was free before. What if they were to be victorious 
at the last? They, or what perhaps lurks in them: fear, 
deception, desire, disillusion — all silent at first before the 
song of triumphant love vibrating in the light. Yes. 
Silent. Even desire itself! All silent. But not for long! 

This was, I think, before the third expedition. Yes, it 
must have been the third, for I remember that it was 
boldly planned and that it was carried out without a 
hitch. The tentative period was over; all our arrange- 
ments had been perfected. There was, so to speak, al- 
ways an unfailing smoke on the hill and an unfailing lan- 
tern on the shore. Our friends, mostly bought for hard 
cash and therefore valuable, had acquired confidence in 
us. This, they seemed to say, is no unfathomable roguery 
of penniless adventurers. This is but the reckless enter- 
prise of men of wealth and sense and needn’t be inquired 
into. The young cahallero has got real gold pieces in the 
belt he wears next his skin; and the man with the heavy 
moustaches and unbelieving eyes is indeed very much of 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


1S9 


a man. They gave to Dominic all their respect and to 
me a great show of deference; for I had all the money, 
while they thought that Dominic had all the sense. That 
judgment was not exactly correct. I had my share of 
judgment and audacity which surprises me now that the 
years have chilled the blood without dimming the mem- 
ory. I remember going about the business with a light- 
hearted, clear-headed recklessness which, according as its 
decisions were sudden or considered, made Dominic 
draw his breath through his clenched teeth, or look hard 
at me before he gave me either a slight nod of assent or 
a sarcastic ‘‘Oh, certainly” — just as the humour of the 
moment prompted him. 

One night as we were lying on a bit of dry sand under 
the lee of a rock, side by side, watching the light of our 
little vessel dancing away at sea in the windy distance, 
Dominic spoke suddenly to me. 

“I suppose Alphonso and Carlos, Carlos and Alphonso, 
they are nothing to you, together or separately.” 

I said: “Dominic, if they were both to vanish from 
the earth together or separately it would make no dif- 
ference to my feelings.” 

He remarked: “Just so. A man mourns only for his 
friends. I suppose they are no more friends to you than 
they are to me. Those Carlists make a great consump- 
tion of cartridges. That is well. But why should we do 
all those mad things that you will insist on us doing till 
my hair,” he pursued with grave, mocking exaggeration, 
“till my hair tries to stand up on my head; and all for 
that Carlos, let God and the devil each guard his own, 
for that Majesty as they call him, but after all a man 
like another and — no friend.” 


140 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“Yes, why,” I murmured, feeling my body nestled at 
ease in the sand. 

It was very dark under the overhanging rock on that 
night of clouds and of wind that died and rose and died 
again. Dominic’s voice was heard speaking low between 
the short gusts. 

“Friend of the Senora, eh?” 

“That’s what the world says, Dominic.” 

“Half of what the w'orld says are lies,” he pronounced 
dogmatically. “For all his majesty he may be a good 
enough man. Yet he is only a king in the mountains 
and to-morrow he may be no more than you. Still a 
woman like that — one, somehow, would grudge her to a 
better king. She ought to be set up on a high pillar for 
people that walk on the ground to raise their eyes up to. 
But you are otherwise, you gentlemen. You, for in- 
stance, Monsieur, you wouldn’t want to see her set up 
on a pillar.” 

“That sort of thing, Dominic,” I said, “that sort of 
thing, you understand me, ought to be done early.” 

He was silent for a time. And then his manly voice 
was heard in the shadow of the rock. 

“I see well enough what you mean. I spoke of the 
multitude, that only raise their eyes. But for kings and 
suchlike that is not enough. Well, no heart need de- 
spair; for there is not a woman that wouldn’t at some 
time or other get down from her pillar for no bigger 
bribe perhaps than just a flower which is fresh to-day 
and withered to-morrow. And then, what’s the good of 
asking how long any woman has been up there? There 
is a true saying that lips that have been kissed do not 
lose their freshness.” 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


141 


I don’t know what answer I could have made. I im- 
agine Dominic thought himself unanswerable. As a mat- 
ter of fact, before I could speak, a voice came to us down 
the face of the rock crying secretly, ‘‘Ola, down there! 
All is safe ashore.” 

It was the boy who used to hang about the stable of a 
muleteer’s inn in a little shallow valley with a shallow 
little stream in it, and where we had been hiding most of 
the day before coming down to the shore. We both 
started to our feet and Dominic said, “A good boy that. 
You didn’t hear him either come or go above our heads. 
Don’t reward him with more than one peseta, Senor, 
whatever he does. If you were to give him two he would 
go mad at the sight of so much wealth and throw up his 
job at the Fonda, where he is so useful to run errands, in 
that way he has of skimming along the paths without 
displacing a stone.” 

Meantime he was busying himself with striking a fire 
to set alight a small heap of dry sticks he had made 
ready beforehand on that spot which in all the circuit 
of the Bay was perfectly screened from observation from 
the land side. 

The clear fiame shooting up revealed him in the black 
cloak with a hood of a Mediterranean sailor. His eyes 
watched the dancing dim light to seaward. And he 
talked the while. 

“The only fault you have, Senor, is being too generous 
with your money. In this world you must give sparing- 
ly. The only things you may deal out without count- 
ing, in this life of ours which is but a little fight and a 
little love, is blows to your enemy and kisses to a wom- 
an. . . . Ah! here they are coming in.” 


142 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


I noticed tlie dancing light in the dark west much 
closer to the shore now. Its motion had altered. It 
swayed slowly as it ran towards us, and, suddenly, the 
darker shadow as of a great pointed wing appeared glid- 
ing in the night. Under it a human voice shouted some- 
thing confidently. 

“Bueno,” muttered Dominic. From some receptacle I 
didn’t see he poured a lot of water on the blaze, like a 
magician at the end of a successful incantation that had 
called out a shadow and a voice from the immense space 
of the sea. And his hooded figure vanished from my 
sight in a great hiss and the warm feel of ascending 
steam. 

“That’s all over,” he said, “and now we go back for 
more work, more toil, more trouble, more exertion with 
hands and feet, for hours and hours. And all the time 
the head turned over the shoulder, too.” 

We were climbing a precipitous path sufficiently dan- 
gerous in the dark, Dominic, more familiar with it, going 
first and I scrambling close behind in order that I might 
grab at his cloak if I chanced to slip or miss my footing. 
I remonstrated against this arrangement as we stopped 
to rest. I had no doubt I would grab at his cloak if I 
felt myself falling. I couldn’t help doing that. But I 
would probably only drag him down with me. 

With one hand grasping a shadowy bush above his 
head he growled that all this was possible, but that it 
was all in the bargain, and urged me onwards. 

When we got on to the level that man whose even 
breathing no exertion, no danger, no fear or anger could 
disturb, remarked|as'we strode side by side: p * atsM 

“I will say this for us, that we are carrymg''out all this 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


143 


deadly foolishness as conscientiously as though the eyes 
of the Senora were on us all the time. And as to risk, I 
suppose we take more than she would approve of, I 
fancy, if she ever gave a moment’s thought to us out 
here. Now, for instance, in the next half hour, we may 
come any moment on three carabineers who would let 
oflF their pieces without asking questions. Even your 
way of flinging money about cannot make safety for men 
set on defying a whole big country for the sake of — 
what is it exactly? — the blue eyes, or the white arms of 
the Senora.” 

He kept his voice equably low. It was a lonely spot 
and but for a vague shape of a dwarf tree here and there 
we had only the flying clouds for company. Very far off 
a tiny light twinkled a little way up the seaward shoulder 
of an invisible mountain. Dominic moved on. 

Fancy yourself lying here, on this wild spot, with a 
leg smashed by a shot or perhaps with a bullet in your 
side. It might happen. A star might fall. I have 
watched stars falling in scores on clear nights in the 
Atlantic. And it was nothing. The flash of a pinch of 
gunpowder in your face may be a bigger matter. Yet 
somehow it’s pleasant as we stumble in the dark to think 
of our Senora in that long room with a shiny floor and all 
that lot of glass at the end, sitting on that divan, you 
call it, covered with carpets as if expecting a king indeed. 
And very still . . 

He remembered her — whose image could not be dis- 
missed. 

I laid my hand on his shoulder. 

"‘That light on the mountain side flickers exceedingly, 
Dominic. Are we in the path?” 


144 


. THE ARROW OF GOLD 


He addressed me then in French, which was between us 
the language of more formal moments. 

“Prenez rtion hr as, monsieur. Take a firm hold, or I 
will have you stumbling again and falling into one of 
those beastly holes, with a good chance to crack your 
head. And there is no need to take offence. For, speak- 
ing with all respect, why should you, and I with you, be 
here on this lonely spot, barking our shins in the dark on 
the way to a confounded flickering light where there will 
be no other supper but a piece of a stale sausage and a 
draught of leathery wine out of a stinking skin. Pah!” 

I had good hold of his arm. Suddenly he dropped the 
formal French and pronounced in his inflexible voice: 

“For a pair of white arms, Senor. Bueno.'' 

He could understand. 


ra 


O N OUR return from that expedition we came 
gliding into the old harbour so late that Dominic 
and I, making for the cafe kept by Madame 
Leonore, found it empty of customers, except for two 
rather sinister fellows playing cards together at a corner 
table near the door. The first thing done by Madame 
Leonore was to put her hands on Dominic’s shoulders and 
look at arm’s length into the eyes of that man of audacious 
deeds and wild stratagems who smiled straight at her 
from under his heavy and, at that time, uncurled mous- 
taches. 

Indeed we didn’t present a neat appearance, our faces 
unshaven, with the traces of dried salt sprays on our 
smarting skins and the sleeplessness of full forty hours 
filming our eyes. At least it was so with me who saw as 
through a mist Madame Leonore moving with her mature 
nonchalant grace, setting before us wine and glasses with 
a faint swish of her ample black skirt. Under the elabo- 
rate structure of black hair her jet-black eyes sparkled 
like good-humoured stars and even I could see that she 
was tremendously excited at having this lawless wanderer 
Dominic within her reach and as it were in her power. 
Presently she sat down by us, touched lightly Dominic’s 
curly head silvered on the temples (she couldn’t really 
help it), gazed at me for a while with a quizzical smile, 
observed that I looked very tired, and asked Dominic 
whether for all that I v/as likely to sleep soundly to-night. 

145 


146 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


*T don’t know,” said Dominic. “He’s young. And 
there is always the chance of dreams.” 

“What do you men dream of in those little barques of 
yours tossing for months on the water?” 

“Mostly of nothing,” said Dominic. “But it .has 
happened to me to dream of furious fights.” 

“And of furious loves, too, no doubt,” she caught him 
up in a mocking voice. 

“No, that’s for the waking hours,” Dominic drawled, 
basking sleepily with his head between his hands in her 
ardent gaze. “The waking hours are longer.” 

“They must be, at sea,” she said, never taking her eyes 
off him. “But I suppose you do talk ot your loves 
sometimes.” 

“You may be sure, Madame Leonore,” I interjected, 
noticing the hoarseness of my voice, “that you at any 
rate are talked about a lot at sea.” 

“I am not so sure of that now. There is that strange 
lady from the Prado that you took him to see, Signorino. 
She went to his head like a glass of wine into a tender 
youngster’s. He is such a child, and I suppose that I am 
another. Shame to confess it, the other morning I got a 
friend to look after the cafe for a couple of hours, wrapped 
up my head, and walked out there to the other end of the 
town. . . . Look at these two sitting up! And I 

thought they were so sleepy and tired, the poor fellows ! ” 

She kept our curiosity in suspense for a moment. 

“Well, I have seen your marvel, Dominic,” she con- 
tinued in a calm voice. “She came flying out of the gate 
on horseback and it would have been all I would have seen 
of her if — and this is for you, Signorino — if she hadn’t 
pulled up in the main alley to wait for a very good- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


147 


looking cavalier. He had his moustachei so, and his 
teeth were very white when he smiled at her. But his 
eyes are too deep in his head for my taste. I didn’t like 
it. It reminded me of a certain very severe priest who 
used to come to our village when I was young; younger 
even than your marvel, Dominic.” 

‘‘It was no priest in disguise, Madame Leonore,” I 
said, amused by her expression of disgust. “That’s an 
American.” 

“Ah! Tin Americano! Well, never mind him. It was 
her that I went to see.” 

“What! Walked to the other end of the town to see 
Dona Rita!” Dominic addressed her in a low bantering 
tone. “Why, you were always telling me you couldn’t 
walk further than the end of the quay to save your life — 
or even mine, you said.” 

“Well, I did; and I walked back again and between the 
two walks I had a good look. And you may be sure — that 
will surprise you both — that on the way back — oh, Santa 
Madre, wasn’t it a long way, too — I wasn’t thinking of 
any man at sea or on shore in that connection.” 

“No. And you were not thinking of yourself, either, 
I suppose,” I said. Speaking was a matter of great effort 
for me, whether I was too tired or too sleepy, I can’t tell. 
“No, you were not thinking of yourself. You were think- 
ing of a woman, though.” 

“ Si. As much a woman as any of us that ever breathed 
in the world. Yes, of her! Of that very one! You see, 
we women are not like you men, indifferent to each other 
unless by some exception. Men say we are always against 
one another but that’s only men’s conceit. What can she 
be to me? I am not afraid of the big child here,” and she 


148 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


tapped Dominic’s forearm on which he rested his head 
with a fascinated stare. “With us two it is for life and 
death, and I anl rather pleased that there is something yet 
in him that can catch fire on occasion. I would have 
thought less of him if he hadn’t been able to get out of 
hand a little, for something really fine. As for you, Signo- 
rino,” she turned on me with an unexpected and sarcas- 
tic sally, “I am not in love with you yet.” She changed 
her tone from sarcasm to a soft and even dreamy note. 
“A head like a gem,” went on that woman born in some 
by-street of Rome, and a plaything for years of God 
knows what obscure fates. “Yes, Dominic! Antica. I 
haven’t been haunted by a face since — since I was sixteen 
years old. It was the face of a young cavalier in the 
street. He was on horseback, too. He never looked at 
me, I never saw him again, and I loved him for — for 
days and days and days. That was the sort of face he 
had. And her face is of the same sort. She had a man’s 
hat, too, on her head. So high!” 

“A man’s hat on her head,” remarked with profound 
displeasure Dominic, to whom this wonder, at least, 
of all the wonders of the earth, was apparently un- 
known. 

“(Sf. And her face has haunted me. Not so long as 
that other but more touchingly because I am no longer 
sixteen and that is a woman. Yes, I did think of her. I 
myself was once that age and I, too, had a face of my own 
to show to the world, though not so superb. And I, too, 
didn’t know why I had come into the world any more than 
she does.” 

“And now you know,” Dominic growled softly, with 
his head still between his hands. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 149 

She looked at him for a long time, opened her lips but 
in the end only sighed lightly. 

‘‘And what do you know of her, you who have seen her 
so well as to be haunted by her face,” I asked. 

I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had answered me 
with another sigh. For she seemed only to be thinking of 
herself and looked not in my direction. But suddenly 
she roused up. 

“Of her,” she repeated in a louder voice. “WTiy should 
X talk of another woman? And then she is a great lady.” 

At this I could not repress a smile which she detected 
at once. 

“Isn’t she? Well, no, perhaps she isn’t; but you may 
be sure of one thing that she is both flesh and shadow 
more than any one that I have seen. Keep that well nx 
your mind: She is for no man! She would be vanishing 
out of their hands like water that cannot be held.” 

I caught my breath. “Inconstant,” I whispered. 

“ I don’t say that. Maybe too proud, too wilful, too full 
of pity. Signorino, you don’t know much about women. 
And you may learn something yet or you may not; but 
what you learn from her you will never forget.” 

“Not to be held,” I murmured; and she whom the 
quayside called Madame Leonore closed her outstretched 
hand before my face and opened it at once to show its 
emptiness in illustration of her expressed opinion. Dom- 
inic never moved. 

I^wished good-night to these two and left the cafe for 
the fresh air and the dark spaciousness of the quays aug- 
mented by all the width of the old Port where betw^een 
the trails of light the shadows of heavy hulls appeared 
very black, merging their outlines in a great confusion. I 


150 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


left behind me the end of the Cannebiere, a wide vista of 
tall houses and much-lighted pavements losing itself in the 
distance with an extinction of both shapes and lights. I 
slunk past it with only a side glance and sought the dimness 
of quiet streets away from the centre of the usual night 
gaieties of the town. The dress I wore was just that of a 
sailor come ashore from some coaster, a thick blue woollen 
shirt or rather a sort of jumper with a knitted cap like a 
tam-o’-shanter worn very much on one side and with a red 
tuft of wool in the centre. This was even the reason why 
I had lingered so long in the cafe. I didn’t want to be rec- 
ognized in the streets in that costume and still less to be 
seen entering the house in the street of the Consuls. At 
that hour when the performances were over and all the 
sensible citizens in their beds I didn’t hesitate to cross 
the Place of the Opera. It was dark, the audience had al- 
ready dispersed. The rare passers-by I met hurrying on 
their last affairs of the day paid no attention to me at 
all. The street of the Consuls I expected to find empty, 
as usual at that time of the night. But as I turned a 
corner into it I overtook three people who must have 
belonged to the locality. To me, somehow, they ap- 
peared strange. Two girls in dark cloaks walked ahead 
of a tall man in a top hat. I slowed down, not wishing 
to pass them by, the more so that the door of the house 
was only a few yards distant. But to my intense sur- 
prise those people stopped at it and the man in the top 
hat producing a latchkey, let his two companions through, 
followed them, and with a heavy slam cut himself off 
from my astonished self and the rest of mankind. 

( In the stupid way people have I stood and medi- 
tated on the sight, before it occurred to me that this 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


151 


was the most useless thing to do. After waiting 
a little longer to let the others get away from the hall 
I entered in my turn. The small gas-jet seemed not 
to have been touched ever since that distant night when 
Mills and I trod the black-and-white marble hall for the 
first time on the heels of Captain Blunt — who lived by 
his sword. And in the dimness and solitude which kept 
no more trace of the three strangers than if they had 
been the merest ghosts I seemed to hear the ghost- 
ly murmur, Amhicairiy Catholique et gentilhoniTne. 
Amir . . Unseen by human eye I ran up the 

fiight of steps swiftly and on the first floor, stepped into 
my sitting-room of which the door was open . . . 

gentilhomme.^^ I tugged at the bell pull and somewhere 
down below a bell rang as unexpected for Therese as a 
call from a ghost. 

I had no notion whether Therese could hear me. I 
seemed to remember that she slept in any bed that hap- 
pened to be vacant. For all I knew she might have been 
asleep in mine. As I had no matches on me I waited for 
a while in the dark. The house was perfectly still. Sud- 
denly without the slightest preliminary sound light fell 
into the room and Therese stood in the open door with a 
candlestick in her hand. 

She had on her peasant brown skirt. The rest of her 
was concealed in a black shawl which covered her head, 
her shoulders, arms, and elbows completely, down to her 
waist. The hand holding the candle protruded from that 
envelope which the other invisible hand clasped together 
under her very chin. And her face looked like a face in 
a painting. She said at once: 

‘'You startled me, my young Monsieur.” 


152 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


She addressed me most frequently in that way as 
though she liked the very word “young.” Her manner 
was certainly peasant-like with a sort of plaint in the 
voice, while the face was that of a serving Sister in some 
small and rustic convent. 

“I meant to do it,” I said. “I am a very bad person.” 

“The young are always full of fun,” she said as if she 
were gloating over the idea. “It is very pleasant.” 

“But you are very brave,” I chaffed her, “for you 
didn’t expect a ring, and after all it might have been the 
devil who pulled the bell.” 

“It might have been. But a poor girl like me is not 
afraid of the devil. I have a pure heart. I have been to 
confession last evening. No. But it might have been 
an assassin that pulled the bell ready to kill a poor harm- 
less woman. This is a very lonely street. What could 
prevent you to kill me now and then walk out again free 
as air.?” 

While she was talking like this she had lighted the gas 
and with the last words she glided through the bedroom 
door leaving me thunderstruck at the unexpected char- 
acter of her thoughts. 

I couldn’t know that there had been during my ab- 
sence a case of atrocious murder which had affected the 
imagination of the whole town; and though Therese did 
not read the papers (which she imagined to be full of im- 
pieties and immoralities invented by godless men) yet if 
she spoke at all with her kind, which she must have done 
at least in shops, she could not have helped hearing of it. 
It seems that for some days people could talk of nothing 
else. She returned gliding from the bedroom hermeti- 
cally sealed in her black shawl just as she had gone in. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


153 


with the protruding hand holding the lighted candle, and 
relieved my perplexity as to her morbid turn of mind by 
telling me something of the murder story in a strange 
tone of indifference even while referring to its most hor- 
rible features. “That’s what carnal sin (pechi de chair) 
leads to,” she commented severely and passed her tongue 
over her thin lips. “And then the devil furnishes the 
occasion.” 

“I can’t imagine the devil inciting me to murder you, 
Therese,” I said, “and I didn’t like that ready way you 
took me for an example, as it were. I suppose pretty near 
every lodger might be a potential murderer, but I ex- 
pected to be made an exception.” 

With the ciuidle held a little below her face, with that 
face of one tone and without relief she looked more than 
ever as though she had come out of an old, cracked, smoky 
painting, the subject of which was altogether beyond 
human conception. And she only compressed her lips. 

“All right,” I said, making myself comfortable on a 
sofa after pulling off my boots. “I suppose any one is 
liable to commit murder all of a sudden. Well, have you 
got many murderers in the house?” 

“Yes,” she said, “it’s pretty good. Upstairs and 
downstairs,” she sighed. “God sees to it.” 

“And by the by, who is that grey-headed murderer in 
a tall hat whom I saw shepherding two girls into this 
house? ” 

She put on a candid air in which one could detect a 
little of her peasant cunning. 

“ Oh, yes. They are two dancing girls at the Opera, sis- 
ters, as different from each other as I and our poor Rita. 
But they are both virtuous and that gentleman, their 


154 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


father, is very severe with them. Very severe indeed, 
poor orphans. And it seems to be such a sinful occupa- 
tion.” 

“I bet you make them pay a big rent, Therese, With 
an occupation like that . . . ” 

She looked at me with eyes of invincible innocence and 
began to glide towards the door, so smoothly that the 
flame of the candle hardly swayed. “Good-night,” she 
murmured. 

“Good-night, Mademoiselle.” 

Then in the very doorway she turned right round as a 
marionette would turn. 

“Oh, you ought to know, my dear young Monsieur, 
that Mr. Blunt, the dear handsome man, has arrived from 
Navarre three days ago or more. Oh,” she added with a 
priceless air of compunction, “he is such a charming gen- 
tleman.” 

And the door shut after her. 


IV 


T hat night I passed in a state, mostly open- 
eyed, I believe, but always on the border between 
dreams and waking. The only thing absolutely 
absent from it was the feeling of rest. The usual suffer- 
ings of a youth in love had nothing to do with it. I could 
leave her, go away from her, remain away from her, with- 
out an added pang or any augmented consciousness of 
that torturing sentiment of distance so acute that often 
it ends by wearing itself out in a few days. Far or near 
was all one to me, as if one could not get ever any fur- 
ther but also never any nearer to her secret: the state 
like that of some strange wild faiths that get hold of man- 
kind with the cruel mystic grip of unattainable perfec- 
tion, robbing them of both liberty and felicity on earth. 
A faith presents one with some hope, though. But I 
had no hope, and not even desire as a thing outside my- 
self, that would come and go, exhaust or excite. It was in 
me just like life was in me; that life of which a popular 
saying affirms that ‘‘it is sweet.’^ For the general wis- 
dom of mankind will always stop short on the limit of 
the formidable. 

What is best in a state of brimful, equable suffering is 
that it does away with the gnawings of petty sensations. 
Too far gone to be sensible to hope and desire I was 
spared the inferior pangs of elation and impatience. 
Hours with her or hours without her, were all alike, all 
in her possession! But still there are shades and I will 

155 


156 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


admit that the hours of that morning were perhaps a lit- 
tle more difficult to get through than the others. I had. 
sent word of my arrival of course. ..I had written a note. 
I had rung the bell. Therese had appeared herself in her 
brown garb and as monacal as ever. I had said to her: 

“Have this sent off at once.” 

She had gazed at the addressed envelope, smiled (I 
was looking up at her from my desk), and at last took it 
up with an effort of sanctimonious repugnance. But she 
remained with it in her hand looking at me as though she 
were piously gloating over something she could read in 
my face. 

“Oh, that Rita, that Rita,” she murmured. “And 
you, too! Why are you trying, you, too, like the others, 
to stand between her and the mercy of God.^ What’s the 
good of all this to you? And you such a nice, dear, 
young gentleman. For no earthly good only making all 
the kind saints in heaven angry, and our mother ashamed 
in her place amongst the blessed.” 

“Mademoiselle Therese,” I said, “vous etesfolle.” 

I believed she was crazy. She was cunning, too. I 
added an imperious: “Allez,’’ and with a strange docility 
she glided out without another word. All I had to do 
then was to get dressed and wait till eleven o’clock. 

The hour struck at last. If I could have plunged into a 
light wave and been transported instantaneously to Dona 
Rita’s door it would no doubt have saved me an infinity 
of pangs too complex for analysis; but as this was impos- 
sible I elected to walk from end to end of that long way. 
My emotions and sensations were childlike and chaotic 
inasmuch that they were very intense and primitive, and 
that I lay very helpless in their unrelaxing grasp. If one 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


157 


could have kept a record of one’s physical sensations it 
would have been a fine collection of absurdities and 
contradictions. Hardly touching the ground and yet 
leaden-footed; with a sinking heart and an excited brain; 
hot and trembling with a secret faintness, and yet as firm 
as a rock and with a sort of indifference to it all, I did 
reach the door which was frightfully like any other com- 
monplace door, but at the same time had a fateful char- 
acter: a few planks put together — and an awful symbol; 
not to be approached without awe — and yet coming 
open in the ordinary way to the ring of the bell. 

It came open. Oh, yes, very much as usual. But in 
the ordinary course of events the first sight in the hall 
should have been the back of the ubiquitous, busy, silent 
maid hurrying off and already distant. But not at all! 
She actually waited for me to enter. I was extremely 
taken aback and I believe spoke to her for the first time 
in my life. 

*‘Bonjour, Rose.” 

She dropped her dark eyelids over those eyes that ought 
to have been lustrous but were not, as if somebody had 
breathed on them the first thing in the morning. She was 
a girl without smiles. She shut the door after me, and 
not only did that but in the incredible idleness of that 
morning she, who had never a moment to spare, started 
helping me off with my overcoat. It was positively em- 
barrassing from its novelty. While busying herself with 
those trifles she murmured without any marked intention: 

“ Captain Blunt is with Madame.” 

This didn’t exactly surprise me. I knew he had come 
up to town; I only happened to have forgotten his exis- 
tence for the moment. I looked at the girl also without 


158 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


any particular intention. But she arrested my move- 
ment towards the dining-room door by a low, hurried, if 
perfectly unemotional appeal: 

“Monsieur George!” 

That of course was not my name. It served me then 
as it will serve for this story. In all sorts of strange 
places I was alluded to as “that young gentleman they 
call Monsieur George.” Orders came from “Monsieur 
George” to men who nodded knowingly. Events pivoted 
about “Monsieur George.” I haven’t the slightest doubt 
that in the dark and tortuous streets of the Old Town 
there were fingers pointed at my back: there goes “Mon- 
sieur George.” I had been introduced discreetly to several 
considerable persons as “Monsieur George.” I had learned 
to answer to the name quite naturally; and to simplify 
matters I was also “Monsieur George” in the street of the 
Consuls and in the Villa on the Prado. I verily believe 
that at that time I had the feeling that the name of George 
i'eally belonged to me. I waited for what the girl had to 
say. I had to wait some time, though during that silence 
she gave no sign of distress or agitation. It was for her 
obviously a moment of reflection. Her lips were com- 
pressed a little in a characteristic, capable manner. I 
looked at her with a friendliness I really felt towards her 
slight, unattractive, and dependable person. 

“Well,” I said at last, rather amused by this mental 
hesitation. I never took it for anything else. I was sure 
it was not distrust. She appreciated men and things and 
events solely in relation to Dona Rita’s welfare and safety. 
And as to that I believed myself above suspicion. At 
last she spoke. 

“Madame is not happy.” This information was given 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


159 


to me not emotionally but as it were oflBcially. It hadn’t 
even a tone of warning. A mere statement. Without 
waiting to see the effect she opened the dining-room 
door, not to announce my name in the usual way but to 
go in and shut it behind her. In that short moment I 
heard no voices inside. Not a sound reached me while 
the door remained shut; but in a few seconds it came open 
again and Rose stood aside to let me pass. 

Then I heard something: Dona Rita’s voice raised a 
little on an impatient note (a very, very rare thing) 
finishing some phrase of protest with the words : 

“ . . . Of no consequence.” 

I heard them as I would have heard any other words, 
for she had that kind of voice which carries a long dis- 
tance, But the maid’s statement occupied all my mind. 
“Madame rCest pas heureuse.” It had a dreadful pre- 
cision . . . “Not happy . . . ” This unhap- 
piness had almost a concrete form — something resem- 
bling a horrid bat. I was tired, excited, and generally 
overwrought. My head felt empty. What were the 
appearances of unhappiness? I was still naive enough to 
associate them with tears, lamentations, extraordinary 
attitudes of the body and some sort of facial distortion, all 
very dreadful to behold. I didn’t know what I should see; 
but in what I did see there was nothing startling, at any 
rate from that nursery point of view which apparently 
I had not yet outgrown. 

With immense relief the apprehensive child within me 
beheld Captain Blunt warming his back at the more 
distant of the two fireplaces; and as to Dona Rita there 
was nothing extraordinary in her attitude either, except 
perhaps that her hair was all loose about her shoulders. 


160 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


I hadn’t the slightest doubt they had been riding to- 
gether that morning, but she, with her impatience of all 
costume (and yet she could dress herself admirably and 
wore her dresses triumphantly), had divested herself of her 
riding habit and sat cross-legged enfolded in that ample 
blue robe like a young savage chieftain in a blanket. It 
covered her very feet. And before the normal fixity of 
her enigmatical eyes the smoke of the cigarette ascended 
ceremonially, straight up, in a slender spiral. 

“How are you,” was the greeting of Captain Blunt 
with the usual smile which would have been more amiable 
if his teeth hadn’t been, just then, clenched quite so tight. 
How he managed to force his voice through that shining 
barrier I could never understand. Dona Rita tapped 
the couch engagingly by her side but I sat down instead in 
the armchair nearly opposite her, which, I imagine, must 
have been just vacated by Blunt. She inquired with that 
particular gleam of the eyes in which there was something 
immemorial and gay; 

“Well.?” 

“Perfect success.” 

“I could hug you.” 

At any time her lips moved very little but in this instance 
the intense whisper of these words seemed to form itself 
right in my very heart; not as a conveyed sound but as 
an imparted emotion vibrating there with an awful inti- 
macy of delight. And yet it left my heart heavy. 

“Oh, yes, for joy,” I said bitterly but very low; “for 
your Royalist, Legitimist, joy.” Then with that trick of 
very precise politeness which I must have caught from 
Mr. Blunt I added: 

“I don’t want to be embraced — for the Bang.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


161 


And I might have stopped there. But I didn’t. With 
a perversity which should be forgiven to those who suffer 
night and day and are as if drunk with an exalted unhap- 
piness, I went on: ‘‘For the sake of an old cast-off glove; 
for I suppose a disdained love is not much more than a 
soiled, flabby thing that finds itself on a private rubbish 
heap because it has missed the fire.” 

She listened to me unreadable, unmoved, narrowed 
eyes, closed lips, slightly flushed face, as if carved six 
thousand years ago in order to fix for ever that something 
secret and obscure which is in all women. Not the gross 
immobility of a Sphinx proposing roadside riddles but the 
finer immobility, almost sacred, of a fateful figure seated 
at the very source of the passions that have moved men 
from the dawn of ages. 

Captain Blunt, with his elbow on the high mantelpiece, 
had turned away a little from us and his attitude expressed 
excellently the detachment of a man who does not want 
to hear. As a matter of fact, I don’t suppose he could 
have heard. He was too far away, our voices were too 
contained. Moreover, he didn’t want to hear. There 
could be no doubt about it; but she addressed him unex- 
pectedly. 

“As I was saying to you, Don Juan, I have the greatest 
difiSculty in getting myself, I won’t say understood, but 
simply believed.” 

No pose of detachment could avail against the warm 
waves of that voice. He had to hear. After a moment 
he altered his position as it were reluctantly, to answer 
her. * 

“That’s a diflSculty that women generally havc.*^ 

“Yet I have always spoken the truth.” 


162 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“All women speak the truth,” said Blunt imperturb- 
ably. And this annoyed her. 

“Where are the men I have deceived.^” she cried. 

“Yes, where?” said Blunt in a tone of alacrity as though 
he had been ready to go out and look for them outside. 

“No! But show me one. Isay — where is he?” 

He threw his affectation of detachment to the winds, 
moved his shoulders slightly, very slightly, made a step 
nearer to the couch, and looked down on her with an ex- 
pression of amused courtesy. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably nowhere. But if such 
a man could be found I am certain he would turn out a 
very stupid person. You can’t be expected to furnish 
every one who approaches you with a mind. To expect 
that would be too much, even from you who know how 
to work wonders at such little cost to yourself.” 

“To myself,” she repeated in a loud tone. 

“Why this indignation? I am simply taking your word 
for it.” 

“Such little cost!” she exclaimed under her breath. 

“I mean to your person.” 

“Oh, yes,” she murmured, glanced down, as it were 
upon herself, then added very low: “This body.” 

“Well, it is you,” said Blunt with visibly contained 
irritation. “You don’t pretend it’s somebody else’s. 
It can’t be. You haven’t borrowed it . . . It fits 

you too well,” he ended between his teeth. 

“You take pleasure in tormenting yourself,” she remon- 
strated, suddenly placated; “and I would be sorry for you 
if I didn’t think it’s the mere revolt of your pride. And 
you know you are indulging your pride at my expense. 
As to the rest of it, as to my living, acting, working 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 163 

wonders at a little cost ... it has all but killed me 
morally. Do you hear? Killed.” 

''Oh, you are not dead yet,” he muttered. 

"No,” she said with gentle patience. "There is still 
some feeling left in me; and if it is any satisfaction to you 
to know it, you may be certain that I shall be conscious 
of the last stab.” 

He remained silent for a while and then with a polite 
smile and a movement of the head in my direction he 
warned her. 

"Our audience will get bored.” 

"I am perfectly aware that Monsieur George is here, 
and that he has been breathing a very different atmos- 
phere from what he gets in this room. Don’t you find 
this room extremely confined?” she asked me. 

The room was very large but it is a fact that I felt op- 
pressed at that moment. This mysterious quarrel be- 
tween those two people, revealing something more close 
in their intercourse than I had ever before suspected, 
made me so profoundly unhappy that I didn’t even at- 
ftempt to answer. And she continued: 

"More space. More air. Give me air, air.” She 
seized the embroidered edges of her blue robe under her 
white throat and made as if to tear them apart, to fling 
it open on her breast, recklessly, before our eyes. We 
both remained perfectly still. Her hands dropped nerve- 
lessly by her side. "I envy you, Monsieur George. If 
I am to go under I should prefer to be drowned in the 
sea with the wind on my face. What luck, to feel noth- 
ing less than all the world closing over one’s head!” 

A short silence ensued before Mr. Blunt’s drawing- 
room voice was heard with playful familiarity. 


164 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“I have often asked myself whether you weren’t real* 
ly a very ambitious person. Dona Rita.” 

“And I ask myself whether you have any heart.” She 
was looking straight at him and he gratified her with the 
usual cold white flash of his even teeth before he an- 
swered. 

“Asking yourself? That means that you are really 
asking me. But why do it so publicly? I mean it. One 
single, detached presence is enough to make a public. 
One alone. Why not wait till he returns to those regions 
of space and air — from which he came.” 

His particular trick of speaking of any third person as 
of a lay figure was exasperating. Yet at the moment I 
did not know how to resent it, but, in any case. Dona 
Rita would not have given me time. Without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation she cried out: 

“I only wish he could take me out there with him.” 

For a moment Mr. Blunt’s face became as still as a 
mask and then instead of an angry it assumed an indul- 
gent expression. As to me I had a rapid vision of Dom- 
inic’s astonishment, awe, and sarcasm which was always 
as tolerant as it is possible for sarcasm to be. But what 
a charming, gentle, gay, and fearless companion she would 
have made! I believed in her fearlessness in any adven- 
ture that would interest her. It would be a new occasion 
for me, a new viewpoint for that faculty of admiration 
she had awakened in me at sight — at first sight — be- 
fore she opened her lips — before she ever turned her 
eyes on me. She would have to wear some sort of sailor 
costume, a blue woollen shirt open at the throat . 
Dominic’s hooded cloak would envelop her amply, and 
her face under the black hood would have a luminous 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


165 


quality, adolescent charm, and an enigmatic expression. 
The confined space of the little vessel’s quarterdeck 
would lend itself to her cioss-legged attitudes, and the 
blue sea would balance gently her characteristic immo- 
bility that seemed to hide thoughts as old and profound 
as itself. As restless, too — perhaps. 

But the picture I had in my eye, coloured and simple 
like an illustration to a nursery -book tale of two venture- 
some children’s escapade, was what fascinated me most. 
Indeed I felt that we two were like children under the 
gaze of a man of the world — who lived by his sword. 
And I said recklessly: 

‘‘Yes, you ought to come along with us for a trip. You 
would see a lot of things for yourself.” 

Mr. Blunt’s expression had grown even more indulgent 
if that were possible. Yet there was something ineradi- 
cably ambiguous about vhat man. I did not like the in- 
definable tone in which he observed : 

“You are perfectly reckless in what you say, Dofia 
Rita. It has become a habit with you of late.” 

“While with you reserve is a second nature, Don 
Juan.” 

This was uttered with the gentlest, almost tender, irony. 
Mr. Blunt waited a while before he said: 

“Certainly . . . Would you have liked me to be 

otherwise.^” 

She extended her hand to him on a sudden impulse. 

“Forgive me! I may have been unjust, and you may 
only have been loyal. The falseness is not in us. The 
fault is in life itself, I suppose. I have been always frank 
with you.” 

“And I obedient,” he said, bowing low over her hand. 


166 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


He turned away, paused to look at me for some time and 
finally gave me the correct sort of nod. But he said noth- 
ing and went out, or rather lounged out with his worldly 
manner of perfect ease under all conceivable circum- 
stances. With her head lowered Dona Rita watched him 
till he actually shut the door behind him. I was facing 
her and only heard the door close. 

“Don’t stare at me,” were the first words she said. 

It was difiicult to obey that request. I didn’t know 
exactly where to look, while I sat facing her. So I got 
up, vaguely full of goodwill, prepared even to move off 
as far as the window, when she commanded: 

“Don’t turn your back on me.” 

I chose to understand it symbolically. 

“You know very well I could never do that. I 
couldn’t. Not even if I wanted to.” And I added: “It’s 
too late now.” 

“Well, then, sit down. Sit down on this couch.” 

I sat down on the couch. Unwillingly? Yes. I was at 
that stage when all her words, all her gestures, all her 
silences were a heavy trial to me, put a stress on my 
resolution, on that fidelity to myself and to her which 
lay like a leaden weight on my untried heart. But I 
didn’t sit down very far away from her, though that soft 
and billowy couch was big enough, God knows! No, not 
very far from her. Self-control, dignity, hopelessness it- 
self, have their limits. The halo of her tawny hair stirred 
as I let myself drop by her side. Whereupon she flung 
one arm round my neck, leaned her temple against my 
shoulder and began to sob; but that I could only guess 
from her slight, convulsive movements because in our 
relative positions I could only see the mass of her tawny 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


167 


hair brushed back, yet with a halo of escaped hair which 
as I bent my head over her tickled my lips, my cheek, in 
a maddening manner. 

We sat like two venturesome children in an illustra- 
tion to a tale, scared by their adventure. But not for 
long. As I instinctively, yet timidly, sought for her 
other hand I felt a tear strike the back of mine, big and 
heavy as if fallen from a great height. It was too much 
for me. I must have given a nervous start. At once I 
heard a murmur: ‘‘You had better go away now.” 

I withdrew myself gently from under the light weight 
of her head, from'this unspeakable bliss and inconceivable 
misery, and had the absurd impression of leaving her sus- 
pended in the air. And I moved away on tiptoe. 

Like an inspired blind man led by Providence I found 
my way out of the room but really I saw nothing, till in 
the hall the maid appeared by enchantment before me 
holding up my overcoat. I let her help me into it. And 
then (again as if by enchantment) she had my hat in her 
hand. 

“No. Madame isnT happy,” I whispered to her dis- 
tractedly. 

She let me take my hat out of her hand and while I 
was putting it on my head I heard an austere whisper: 

“Madame should listen to her heart.” 

Austere is not the word; it was almost freezing, this 
unexpected, dispassionate rustle of words. I had to re- 
press a shudder, and as coldly as herself I murmured: 

“She has done that once too often.” 

Rose was standing very close to me and I caught dis- 
tinctly the note of scorn in her indulgent compassion. 

“Oh, that! . . . Madame is like a child.’’ 


168 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


It was impossible to get the bearing of that utterance 
from that girl who, as Doha Rita herself had told me, was 
the most taciturn of human beings; and yet of all human 
beings the one nearest to herself. I seized her head in 
my hands and turning up her face I looked straight down 
into her black eyes which should have been lustrous. 
Like a piece of glass breathed upon they reflected no 
light, revealed no depths, and under my ardent gaze re- 
mained tarnished, misty, unconscious. 

“Will Monsieur kindly let me go. Monsieur shouldn’t 
play the child, either.” (I let her go.) “Madame could 
have the world at her feet. Indeed she has it there; 
only she doesn’t care for it.” 

How talkative she was, this maid with unsealed lips! 
For some reason or other this last statement of hers 
brought me immense comfort. 

“Yes.!*” I whispered breathlessly. 

“Yes! But in that case what’s the use of living in fear 
and torment?” she went on, revealing a little more of her- 
self to my astonishment. She opened the door for me 
and added; 

“Those that don’t care to stoop ought at least make 
themselves happy.” 

I turned in the very doorway: “There is something 
which prevents that?” I suggested. 

“To be sure there is. Bonjour, Monsieur.” 


PART FOUR 



i 


I 


S UCH a charming lady in a grey silk dress and a 
hand as white as snow. She looked at me through 
very funny glasses on the end of a very long han- 
dle. A very great lady but her voice was as kind as the 
voice of a saint. I have never seen anything like that. 
She made me feel so timid.” 

The voice uttering these words was the voice of The- 
rese and I looked at her from a bed draped heavily in 
brown silk curtains fantastically looped up from ceiling 
to floor. The glow of a sunshiny day was toned down 
by closed jalousies to a mere transparency of darkness. 
In this thin medium Therese’s form appeared very black, 
without detail, as if cut out of black paper. It glided 
towards the window and with a click and a scrape let in 
the full flood of light which smote my aching eyeballs 
painfully. 

In truth all that night had been the abomination of 
desolation to me. After wrestling with my thoughts, if 
the acute consciousness of a woman’s existence may be 
called a thought, I had apparently dropped off to sleep 
only to go on wrestling with a nightmare, a senseless and 
terrifying dream of being in bonds which, even after 
waking, made me feel powerless in all my limbs. I lay 
still, suffering acutely from a renewed sense of existence, 
unable to lift an arm, and wondering why I was not at 
sea, how long I had slept, how long Therese had been 
171 


172 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


talking before her voice had reached me in that purga- 
tory of hopeless longing and unanswerable questions to 
which I was condemned. 

It was Therese’s habit to begin talking directly she 
entered the room with the tray of morning coffee. This 
was her method for waking me up. I generally regained 
the consciousness of the external world on some pious 
phrase asserting the spiritual comfort of early mass, or 
on angry lamentations about the unconscionable rapacity 
of the dealers in fish or vegetables; for after mass it was 
Therese’s practice to do the marketing for the house. As 
a matter of fact the necessity of having to pay, to actually 
give money to people, infuriated the pious Therese. But 
the matter of this morning’s speech was so extraordinary 
that it might have been the prolongation of a nightmare: 
a man in bonds having to listen to weird and unaccount- 
able speeches against which, he doesn’t know why, his 
very soul revolts. 

In sober truth my soul remained in revolt though I was 
convinced that I was no longer dreaming. I watched 
Therese coming away from the window with that help- 
less dread a man bound hand and foot may be excused to 
feel. For in such a situation even the absurd may appear 
ominous. She came up close to the bed and folding 
her hands meekly in front of her turned her eyes up to 
the ceiling. 

“If I had been her daughter she couldn’t have spoken 
more softly to me,” she said sentimentally. 

I made a great effort to speak. 

“Mademoiselle Therese, you are raving.” 

“ She addressed me as Mademoiselle, too, so nicely. I 
was struck with veneration for her white hair but her 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 173 

face, believe me, my dear young Monsieur, has not so 
many wrinkles as mine.” 

She compressed her lips with an angry glance at me as 
if I could help her wrinkles, then she sighed. 

I “God sends wrinkles, but what is our face,” she di- 
gressed in a tone of great humility. “We shall have 
glorious faces in Paradise. But meantime God has per- 
mitted me to preserve a smooth heart.” 

“Are you going to keep on like this much longer.?” 
I fairly shouted at her. “What are you talking about?” 

“I am talking about the sweet old lady who came in a 
carriage. Not a fiacre. I can tell a fiacre. In a little 
carriage shut in with glass all in front. I suppose she is 
very rich. The carriage was very shiny outside and all 
beautiful grey stuff inside. I opened the door to her 
myself. She got out slowly like a queen. I was struck 
all of a heap. Such a shiny beautiful little carriage. 
There were blue silk tassels inside, beautiful silk tassels.” 

Obviously Therese had been very much impressed by 
a brougham, though she didn’t know the name for it. 
Of all the town she knew nothing but the streets which led 
to a neighbouring church frequented only by the poorer 
classes and the humble quarter around, where she did her 
marketing. Besides, she was accustomed to glide along 
the walls with her eyes cast down; for her natural bold- 
ness would never show itself through that nun-like mien 
except when bargaining, it only on a matter of threepence. 
Such a turn-out had never been presented to her notice 
before. The traflSc in the street of the Consuls was 
mostly pedestrian and far from fashionable. And any- 
how Therese never looked out of the window. She 
lurked in the depths_of the house like some kind of spider 


174 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


that shuns attention. She used to dart at one from some 
dark recesses which I never explored. 

Yet it seemed to me that she exaggerated her raptures 
for some reason or other. With her it was very difficult 
to distinguish between craft and innocence. 

“Do you mean to say,” I asked suspiciously, “that an 
old lady wants to hire an apartment here? I hope you 
told her there was no room, because, you know, this house 
is not exactly the thing for venerable old ladies.” 

“Don’t make me angry, my dear young Monsieur. I 
have been to confession this morning. Aren’t you con^ 
fortable? Isn’t the house appointed richly enough for 
anybody?” 

That girl with a peasant-nun’s face had never seen the 
inside of a house other than some half-ruined caserio in 
her native hills. 

I pointed out to her that this was not a matter of 
splendour or comfort but of “convenances.” She pricked 
up her ears at that word which probably she had never 
heard before; but with woman’s uncanny intuition I 
believe she understood perfectly what I meant. Her air 
of saintly patience became so pronounced that with my 
own poor intuition I perceived that she was raging at me 
inwardly. Her weather-tanned complexion, already af- 
fected by her confined life, took on an extraordinary 
clayey aspect which reminded me of a strange head 
painted by El Greco which my friend Prax had hung on 
one of his walls and used to rail at; yet not without a 
certain respect. 

Therese, with her hands still meekly folded about her 
waist, had mastered the feelings of anger so unbecoming 
to a person whose sins had been absolved only about three 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


17S. 


hours before, and asked me with an insinuating softness 
whether she wasn’t an honest girl enough to look after 
any old lady belonging to a world which after all was 
sinful. She reminded me that she had kept house ever 
since she was “so high” for her uncle the priest: a man 
well-known for his saintliness in a large district extending 
even beyond Pampeluna. The character of a house 
depended uport the person who ruled it. She didn’t 
know what impenitent wretches had been breathing within 
these walls in the time of that godless and wicked man 
who had planted every seed of perdition in “our Rita’s” 
ill-disposed heart. But he was dead and she, Therese, 
knew for certain that wickedness perished utterly, because 
of God’s anger (la colere du bon Dieu). She would have no 
hesitation in receiving a bishop, if need be, since “our 
Rita,” with her poor, wretched, unbelieving heart, had 
nothing more to do with the house. 

All this came out of her like an unctuous trickle of 
some acrid oil. The low, voluble delivery was enough by 
itself to compel my attention. 

“You think you know your sister’s heart,” I asked. 

She made small eyes at me to discover if I was angry. 
She seemed to have an invincible faith in the virtuous 
dispositions of young men. And as I had spoken in 
measured tones and hadn’t got red in the face she let 
herself go. 

“Black, my dear young Monsieur. Black. I always 
knew it. Uncle, poor saintly man, was too holy to take 
notice of anything. He was too busy with his thoughts 
to listen to anything I had to say to him. For instance 
as to her shamelessness. She was always ready to run 
half naked about the hills . . 


176 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“Yes. After your goats. All day long. Why didn’t 
you mend her frocks?” 

“Oh, you know about the goats. My dear young 
Monsieur, I could never tell when she would fling over 
her pretended sweetness and put her tongue out at me. 
Did she tell you about a boy, the son of pious and rich 
parents, whom she tried to lead astray into the wildness 
of thoughts like her own, till the poor dear child drove her 
off because she outraged his modesty. I saw him often 
with his parents at Sunday mass. The grace of God pre- 
served him and made him quite a gentleman in Paris. 
Perhaps it will touch Rita’s heart, too, some day. But 
she was awful then. When I wouldn’t listen to her com- 
plaints she would say; ‘All right, sister, I would just as 
soon go clothed in rain and wind.’ And such a bag of 
bones, too, like the picture of a devil’s imp. Ah, my 
dear young Monsieur, you don’t know how wicked her 
heart is. You aren’t bad enough for that yourself. I 
don’t believe you are evil at all in your innocent little 
heart. I never heard you jeer at holy things. You are 
only thoughtless. For instance, I have never seen you 
make the sign of the cross in the morning. Why don’t 
you make a practice of crossing yourself directly you 
open your eyes. It’s a very good thing. It keeps Satan 
off for the day.” 

She proffered that advice in a most matter-of-fact tone 
as if it were a precaution against a cold, compressed her 
lips, then returning to her fixed idea, “But the house is 
mine,” she insisted very quietly but with an accent which 
made me feel that Satan himself would never manage to 
tear it out of her hands. 

“And so I told the great lady in grey. I told her that 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 177 

my sister had given it to me and that surely God would 
not let her take it away again/"' 

^‘You told that grey-headed lady, an utter stranger! 
You are getting more crazy every day. Y^ou have neither 
good sense nor good feeling, Mademoiselle Therese, let 
me tell you. Do you talk about your sister to the butcher 
and the greengrocer, too? A downright savage would 
have more restraint. What’s your object? What do 
you expect from it. What pleasure do you get from it? 
Do you think you please God by abusing your sister? 
What do you think you are?” 

‘‘A poor lone girl amongst a lot of wicked people. Do 
you think I want to go forth amongst those abomina- 
tions? It’s that poor sinful Rita that wouldn’t let me 
be where I was, serving a holy man, next door to a church, 
and sure of my share of Paradise. I simply obeyed my 
uncle. It’s he who told me to go forth and attempt to 
save her soul, bring her back to us, to a virtuous life. 
But what would be the good of that? She is given over 
to worldly, carnal thoughts. Of course we are a good 
family and my uncle is a great man in the country, but 
where is the reputable farmer or God-fearing man of that 
kind that would dare to bring such a girl into his house 
to his mother and sisters. No, let her give her ill-gotten 
wealth up to the deserving and devote the rest of her life 
to repentance.” 

She uttered these righteous reflections and presented 
this programme for the salvation of her sister’s soul in a 
reasonable convinced tone which was enough to give 
goose flesh to one all over. 

‘'Mademoiselle Therese,” I said, **y^^ nothing less 
than a monster.” 


178 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


She received that true expression of my opinion as 
though I had given her a sv'^eet of a particularly delicious 
kind. She liked to be abused. It pleased her to be 
called names. I did let her have that satisfaction to her 
heart’s content. At last I stopped because I could do no 
more, unless I got out of bed to beat her. I have a vague 
notion that she would have liked that, too, but I didn’t try. 
After I had stopped she waited a little before she raised 
her downcast eyes. 

“You are a dear, ignorant, flighty young gentleman,” 
she said. “Nobody can tell what a cross my sister is to 
me except the good priest in the church where I go every 
day.” 

“And the mysterious lady in grey,” I suggested sarcas- 
tically. 

“Such a person might have guessed it,” answered 
Therese, seriously, “but I told her nothing except that 
this house had been given me in full property by our Rita. 
And I wouldn’t have done that if she hadn’t spoken to me 
of my sister first. I can’t tell too many people about that. 
One can’t trust Rita. I know she doesn’t fear God but 
perhaps human respect may keep her from taking this 
house back from me. If she doesn’t want me to talk about 
her to people why doesn’t she give me a properly stamped 
piece of paper for it?” 

She said all this rapidly in one breath and at the end had 
a sort of anxious gasp which gave me the opportunity 
to voice my surprise. It was immense. 

“That lady, the strange lady, spoke to you of your 
sister first!” I cried. 

“The lady asked me, after she had been in a little 
time, whether really this house belonged to Madame de 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


179 


Lastaola. She had been so sweet and kind and conde- 
scending that I did not mind humiliating my spirit be- 
fore such a good Christian. I told her that I didn’t know 
how the poor sinner in her mad blindness called herself, 
but that this house had been given to me truly enough 
by my sister. She raised her eyebrows at that but she 
looked at me at the same time so kindly, as much as to 
say, ‘Don’t trust much to that, my dear girl,’ that I 
couldn’t help taking up her hand, soft as down, and kiss- 
ing it. She took it away pretty quick but she was not 
offended. But she only said, ‘That’s very generous on 
your sister’s part,’ in a way that made me run cold all over. 
I suppose all the world knows our Rita for a shameless 
girl. It was then that the lady took up those glasses on 
a long gold handle and looked at me through them till I 
felt very much abashed. She said to me, ‘There is noth- 
ing to be unhappy about. Madame de Lastaola is a 
very remarkable person who has done many surprising 
things. She is not to be judged like other people and as 
far as I know she has never wronged a single human 
being. . . . ’ That put heart into me, I can tell you; 

and the lady told me then not to disturb her son. She 
would wait till he woke up. She knew he was a bad 
sleeper. I said to her: ‘Why, I can hear the dear sweet 
gentleman this moment having his bath in the fencing- 
room,’ and I took her into the studio. They are there 
now and they are going to have their lunch together at 
twelve o’clock.” 

“Why on earth didn’t you tell me at first that the 
lady was Mrs. Blunt?” 

“Didn’t I? I thought I did,” she said innocently. I 
felt a sudden desire to get out of that house, to fly from 


180 THE ARROW OF GOLD 

the reinforced Blunt element which was to me so op- 
pressive. 

“I want to get up and dress, Mademoiselle Therese,” 
I said. 

She gave a slight start and without looking at me 
again glided out of the room, the many folds of her 
brown skirt remaining undisturbed as she moved. 

I looked at my watch; it was ten o’clock. Therese had 
been late with my coffee. The delay was clearly caused 
by the unexpected arrival of Mr. Blunt’s mother, which 
might or might not have been expected by her son. The 
existence of those Blunts made me feel uncomfortable in 
a peculiar way as though they had been the denizens of 
another planet with a subtly different point of view and 
something in the intelligence which was bound to remain 
unknown to me. It caused in me a feeling of inferiority 
which I intensely disliked. This did not arise from the 
actual fact that those people originated in another con- 
tinent. I had met Americans before. And the Blunts 
were Americans. But so little! That was the trouble. 
Captain Blunt might have been a Frenchman as far as 
language, tones, and manners went. But you could not 
have mistaken him for one. . . . Why? You 

couldn’t tell. It was something indefinite. It occurred 
to me while I was towelling hard my hair, face, and the 
back of my neck, that I could not meet J. K. Blunt on 
equal terms in any relation of life except perhaps arms 
in hand, and in preference with pistols, which are less 
intimate, acting at a distance — but arms of some sort. 
For physically his life, which could be taken away from 
him, was exactly like mine, held on the same terms and of 
the same vanishing quality. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


181 


I would have smiled at my absurdity if all, even the 
most intimate, vestige of gaiety had not been crushed 
out of my heart by the intolerable weight of my love for 
Rita. It crushed, it overshadowed, too, it was immense. 
If there were any smiles in the world (which I didn’t be- 
lieve) I could not have seen them. Love for Rita . 
if it was love, I asked myself despairingly, while I brushed 
my hair before a glass. It did not seem to have any sort 
of beginning as far as I could remember. A thing the 
origin of which you cannot trace cannot be seriously 
considered. It is an illusion. Or perhaps mine was a 
physical state, some sort of disease akin to melancholia 
which is a form of insanity? The only moments of relief 
I could remember were when she and I would start 
squabbling like two passionate infants in a nursery, over 
anything under heaven, over a phrase, a word sometimes, 
in the great light of the glass rotunda, disregarding the 
quiet entrances and exits of the ever-active Rose, in 
great bursts of voices and peals of laughter. 

I felt tears come into my eyes at the memory of her 
laughter, the true memory of the senses almost more 
penetrating than the reality itself. It haunted me. All 
that appertained to her haunted me with the same awful 
intimacy, her whole form in the familiar pose, her very 
substance in its colour and texture, her eyes, her lips, 
the gleam of her teeth, the tawny mist of her hair, the 
smoothness of her forehead, the faint scent that she used, 
the very shape, feel, and warmth of her high-heeled slip- 
per that would sometimes in the heat of the discussion 
drop on the floor with a crash, and which I would (al- 
ways in the heat of the discussion) pick up and toss 
back on the couch without ceasing to argue. And be- 


182 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


sides being haunted by what was Rita on earth I was 
haunted also by her waywardness, her gentleness and her 
flame, by that which the high gods called Rita when 
speaking of her amongst themselves. Oh, yes, certainly 
I was haunted by her but so was her sister Therese — 
who was crazy. It proved nothing. As to her tears, 
since I had not caused them, they only aroused my in- 
dignation. To put her head on my shoulder, to weep 
these strange tears, was nothing short of an outrageous 
liberty. It was a mere emotional trick. She would have 
just as soon leaned her head against the over-mantel of 
one of those tall, red granite chimney-pieces in order to 
weep comfortably. And then when she had no longer 
any need of support she dispensed with it by simply tell- 
ing me to go away. How convenient! The request had 
sounded pathetic, almost sacredly so, but then it might 
have been the exhibition of the coolest possible impu- 
dence. With her one could not tell. Sorrow, indiffer- 
ence, tears, smiles, all with her seemed to have a hidden 
meaning. Nothing could be trusted. . . . “Heav- 

ens! Am I as crazy as Therese?” I asked myself with a 
passing chill of fear, while occupied in equalizing the 
ends of my neck-tie. 

I felt suddenly that “this sort of thing” would kill me. 
The definition of the cause was vague but the thought 
itself was no mere morbid artificiality of sentiment but a 
genuine conviction. “That sort of thing” was what I 
would have to die from. It wouldn’t be from the innu- 
merable doubts. Any sort of certitude would be also 
deadly. It wouldn’t be from a stab — a kiss would kill 
me as surely. It would not be from a frown or from any 
particular word or any particular act — but from having 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


183 


to bear them all, together and in succession — from 
having to live with “that sort of thing.” About the 
time I finished with my neck-tie I had done with life 
too. I absolutely did not care because I couldn’t tell 
whether, mentally and physically, from the roots of my 
hair to the soles of my feet — whether I was more weary 
or unhappy 

And now m.y toilet was finished, my occupation was 
gone. An immense distress descended upon me. It has 
been observed that the routine of daily life, that arbitrary 
system of trifles, is a great moral support. But my toilet 
was finished, I had nothing more to do of those things 
consecrated by usage and which leave you no option. 
The exercise of any kind of volition by a man whose con- 
sciousness is reduced to the sensation that he is being 
killed by “that sort of thing” cannot be anything but 
mere trifling with death, an insincere pose before him- 
self. I wasn’t capable of it. It was then that I discov- 
ered that being killed by “that sort of thing,” I mean 
the absolute conviction of it, was, so to speak, nothing in 
itself. The horrible part was the waiting. That was the 
cruelty, the tragedy, the bitterness of it. “Why the 
devil don’t I drop dead now?” I asked myself peevishly i 
taking a clean handkerchief out of the drawer and stuflSng 
it in my pocket. 

This was absolutely the last thing, the last ceremony 
of an imperative rite. I was abandoned to myself now 
and it was terrible. Generally I used to go out, walk 
down to the port, take a look at the craft I loved with a 
sentiment that was extremely complex, being mixed up 
with the image of a woman; perhaps go on board, not 
because there was anything for me to do there but just 


184 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


for nothing, for happiness, simply as a man will sit con- 
tented in the companionship of the beloved object. For 
lunch I had the choice of two places, one Bohemian, the 
other select, even aristocratic, where I had still my re- 
served table in the fetit salon, up the white staircase. 
In both places I had friends who treated my erratic ap- 
pearances with discretion, in one case tinged with re- 
spect, in the other with a certain amused tolerance. I 
owed this tolerance to the most careless, the most con- 
firmed of those Bohemians (his beard had streaks of grey 
amongst its many other tints) who, once bringing his 
heavy hand down on my shoulder, took my defence 
against the charge of being disloyal and even foreign to 
that milieu of earnest visions taking beautiful and revo- 
lutionary shapes in the smoke of pipes, in the jingle of 
glasses. 

“That fellow (ge gargon) is a primitive nature, but he 
may be an artist in a sense. He has broken away from 
his conventions. He is trying to put a special vibration 
and his own notion of colour into his life; and perhaps 
even to give it a modelling according to his own ideas. And 
for all you know he may be on the track of a masterpiece; 
but observe: if it happens to be one nobody will see it. 
It can be only for himself. And even he won’t be able 
to see it in its completeness except on his death-bed. 
There is something fine in that.” 

I had blushed with pleasure; such fine ideas had 
never entered my head. But there was something 
fine. . . . How far all this seemed! How mute and 

how still! What a phantom he was, that man with a 
beard of at least seven tones of brown. And those shades 
of the other kind such as Baptiste with the shaven dip- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


185 


lomatic face, the maitre d’hotel in charge of the petit 
salon, taking my hat and stick from me with a deferen- 
tial remark: “Monsieur is not very often seen nowa- 
days.” And those other well-groomed heads raised and 
nodding at my passage — “Bonjour.” “Bonjour” — 
following me with interested eyes; these young X.s and 
Z.s, low-toned, markedly discreet, lounging up to my 
table on their way out with murmurs: “Are you well.^” 
— “Will one see you anywhere this evening?” — not 
from curiosity, God forbid, but just from friendliness; 
and passing on almost without waiting for an answer. 
What had I to do with them, this elegant dust, these 
moulds of provincial fashion? 

I also often lunched with Dona Rita without invita- 
tion. But that was now unthinkable. What had I to 
do with a woman who allowed somebody else to make her 
cry and then with an amazing lack of good feeling did 
her offensive weeping on my shoulder. Obviously I 
could have nothing to do with her. My five minutes’ 
meditation in the middle of the bedroom came to an 
end without even a sigh. The dead don’t sigh, and for 
all practical purposes I was that, except for the final 
consummation, the growing cold, the rigor mortis — that 
blessed state! With measured steps I crossed the laad- 
ing to my sitting-room. 


n 


T he windows of that room gave out on the street 
of the Consuls which as usual was silent. And 
the house itself below me and above me was 
soundless, perfectly still. In general the house was quiet, 
dumbly quiet, without resonances of any sort, some- 
thing like what one would imagine the interior of a con- 
vent would be. I suppose it was very solidly built. 
Yet that morning I missed in the stillness that feeling of 
security and peace which ought to have been associated 
with it. It is, I believe, generally admitted that the dead 
are glad to be at rest. But I wasn’t at rest. What was 
wrong with that silence? There was something incon- 
gruous in that peace. What was it that had got into that 
stillness? Suddenly I remembered: the mother of 
Captain Blunt. 

Why had she come all the way from Paris? And why 
should I bother my head about it? H’m — the Blunt 
atmosphere, the reinforced Blunt vibration stealing 
through the walls, through the thick walls and the almost 
more solid stillness. Nothing to me, of course — the 
movements of Mme. Blunt, msre. It was maternal 
affection which had brought her south by either the 
evening or morning Rapide, to take anxious stock of the 
ravages of that insomnia. Very good thing, insomnia, for 
a cavalry officer perpetually on outpost duty, a real god- 
send, so to speak; but on leave a truly devilish condition 
to be in. 


198 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


187 


The above sequence of thoughts was entirely unsym- 
pathetic and it was followed by a feeling of satisfaction 
that I, at any rate, was not suffering from insomnia. 
I could always sleep in the end. In the end. Escape 
into a nightmare. Wouldn’t he revel in that if he could ! 
But that wasn’t for him. He had to toss about open-eyed 
all night and get up weary, weary. But oh, wasn’t I 
weary, too, waiting for a sleep without dreams. 

I heard the door behind me open. I had been standing 
with my face to the window and, I declare, not knowing 
what I was looking at across the road — the Desert of 
Sahara or a wall of bricks, a landscape of rivers and forests 
or only the Consulate of Paraguay. But I had been 
thinking, apparently, of Mr. Blunt with such intensity 
that when I saw him enter the room it didn’t really make 
much difference. When I turned about the door behind 
him was already shut. He advanced towards me, correct, 
supple, hollow-eyed, and smiling; and as to his costume 
ready to go out except for the old shooting jacket which 
he must have affectioned particularly, for he never 
lost any time in getting into it at every opportunity. Its 
material was some tweed mixture; it had gone incon- 
ceivably shabby, it was shrunk from old age, it was ragged 
at the elbows; but any one could see at a glance that it had 
been made in London by a celebrated tailor, by a distin- 
guished specialist. Blunt came towards me in all the 
elegance of his slimness and affirming in every line of his 
face and body, in the correct set of his shoulders and the 
careless freedom of his movements, the superiority, the 
inexpressible superiority, the unconscious, the unmarked, 
the not-to-be-described, and even not-to-be-caught, superi- 
ority of the naturally bom and the perfectly finished man 


188 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


of the world over the simple young man. He was smiling, 
easy, correct, perfectly delightful, fit to kill. 

He had come to ask me, if I had no other engagement, 
to lunch with him and his mother in about an hour’s time. 
He did it in a most dSgagS tone. His mother had given 
him a surprise. The completest . . . The founda- 

tion of his mother’s psychology was her delightful unex- 
pectedness. She could never let things be (this in a 
peculiar tone which he checked at once) and he really 
would take it very kindly of me if I came to break the 
t^te-a-tete for a while (that is if I had no other engage- 
ment. Flash of teeth). His mother was exquisitely and 
tenderly absurd. She had taken it into her head that his 
health was endangered in some way. And when she took 
anything into her head . . . Perhaps I might find 

something to say which would reassure her. His mother 
had two long conversations with Mills on his passage 
through Paris and had heard of me (I knew how that thick 
man could speak of people, he interjected ambiguously) 
and his mother, with an insatiable curiosity for anything 
that was rare (filially humorous accent here and a Softer 
flash of teeth), was very anxious to have me presented to 
her (courteous intonation, but no teeth). He hoped I 
wouldn’t mind if she treated me a little as an “interesting 
young man.” His mother had never got over her seven- 
teenth year, and the manner of the spoilt beauty of at 
least three coimties at the back of the Carolinas, That 
again got overlaid by the sans-fagon of a grande dame of 
the Second Empire. 

I accepted the invitation with a worldly grin and a 
perfectly just intonation, because I really didn’t care what 
I did. I only wondered vaguely why that fellow required 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


1$9 

all the air in the room for himself. There did not s.eem 
enough left to go down my throat. I didn't say that I 
would come with pleasure or that I would be delighted, 
but I said that I would come. He seemed to forget his 
tongue in his head, put his hands in his pockets and moved 
about vaguely. am a little nervous this morning,” 
he said in French, stopping short and looking me straight 
in the eyes. His own were deep sunk, dark, fatal. I 
asked with some malice, that no one could have detected 
in my intonation, ‘‘How’s that sleeplessness?” 

He muttered through his teeth, “ilfaZ. Je ne dors 
'plus.''' He moved off to stand at the window with his 
back to the room. I sat down on a sofa that w^as there 
and put my feet up, and silence took possession of the 
room. 

“Isn’t this street ridiculous,” said Blunt suddenly, and 
crossing the room rapidly waved his hand to me, “.4 
bieniot done'’' and was gone. He had seared himself into 
my mind. I did not understand him nor his mother then; 
which made them more impressive; but I have discovered 
since that those tw^o figures required no mystery to make 
them memorable. Of course it isn’t every day that one 
meets a mother that lives by her wits and a son that lives 
by his sword, but there was a perfect finish about their 
ambiguous personalities which is not to be met twice in 
a life-time. I shall never forget that grey dress with ample 
skirts and long corsage yet with infinite style, the ancient 
as if ghostly beauty of outlines, the black lace, the silver 
hair, the harmonious, restrained movements of those white, 
soft hands like the hands of a queen — or an abbess; and 
in the general fresh effect of her person the brilliant eyes 
like two stars with the calm reposeful way they had of 


190 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 

moving on and off one, as if nothing in the world had the 
right to veil itself before their once sovereign beauty. 
Captain Blunt with smiling formality introduced me by 
name, adding with a certain relaxation of the formal tone 
the comment: “The ‘Monsieur George’ whose fame you 
tell me has reached even Paris.” Mrs. Blunt’s reception 
of me, glance, tones, even to the attitude of the admirably, 
corseted figure, was most friendly, approaching the limit 
of half-familiarity. I had the feeling that I was beholding 
in her a captured ideal. No common experience! But I 
didn’t care. It was very lucky perhaps for me that in a 
way I was like a very sick man who has yet preserved all 
his lucidity. I was not even wondering to myself at 
what on earth I was doing there. She breathed out: 
“Comme c'est romantique,'” at large to the dusty studio 
as it were; then pointing out a chair at her right hand, 
and bending slightly towards me she said: 

“I have heard this name murmured by pretty lips in 
more than one royalist salon.” 

I didn’t say anything to that ingratiating speech. I had 
only an odd thought that she could not have had such a 
figure, nothing like it, when she was seventeen and wore 
snowy muslin dresses on the family plantation in South 
Carolina, in pre-abolition days. 

“You won’t mind, I am sure, if an old woman whose 
heart is still young elects to call you by it,” she declared. 

“Certainly, Madame. It will be more romantic,” I 
assented with a respectful bow. 

She dropped a calm: “Yes — there is nothing like ro- 
mance while one is young. So I will call you Monsieur 
George,” she paused and then added, “I could never get 
old,” in a matter-of-fact final tone as one would remark. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


191 


“I could never leam to swim,” and I had the presence of 
mind to say in a tone to match, “C'est ivident, Madame.” 
It was evident. She couldn’t get old; and across the table 
her thirty-year-old son who couldn’t get sleep sat listening 
with courteous detachment and the narrowest possible 
line of white underlining his silky black moustache. 

“Your services are immensely appreciated,” she said 
with an amusing touch of importance as of a great official 
iady. “Immensely appreciated by people in a position 
to understand the great significance of the Carlist move- 
ment in the South. There it has to combat anarchism, 
too. I who have lived through the Commune . . . ” 

Therese came in with a dish, and for the rest of the 
lunch the conversation so well begun drifted amongst the 
most appalling inanities of the religious-royalist-legiti- 
mist order. The ears of all the Bourbons in the world 
must have been burning. Mrs. Blunt seemed to have 
come into personal contact with a good many of them and 
the marvellous insipidity of her recollections was astonish- 
ing to my inexperience. I looked at her from time to 
time thinking: She has seen slavery, she has seen the 
Commune, she knows two continents, she has seen a civil 
war, the glory of the Second Empire, the horrors of twe 
sieges; she has been in contact with marked personalities, 
with great events, she has lived on her wealth, on her 
personality, and there she is with her plumage unruffled, 
as glossy as ever, unable to get old: — a sort of Phoenix 
free from the slightest signs of ashes and dust, all com- 
placent amongst those inanities as if there had been 
nothing else in the world. In my youthful haste I asked 
myself what sort of airy soul she had. 

At last Therese put a dish of fruit on the table, a small 


192 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


collection of oranges, raisins, and nuts. No doubt she 
had bought that lot very cheap and it did not look at all 
inviting. Captain Blunt jumped up. “My mother can’t 
stand tobacco smoke. Will you keep her company, mon 
cher, while I take a turn with a cigar in that ridiculous 
garden. The brougham from the hotel will be here very 
soon.” 

He left us in the white flash of an apologetic grin. 
Almost directly he reappeared, visible from head to foot 
through the glass side of the studio, pacing up and down 
the central path of that “ridiculous” garden: for its ele- 
gance and its air of good breeding the most remarkable 
figure that I have ever seen before or since. He had 
changed his coat. Madame Blunt m^re lowered the long- 
handled glasses through which she had been contemplating 
him with an appraising, absorbed expression which had 
nothing maternal in it. But what she said to me was: 

“ You understand my anxieties while he is campaigning 
with the King.” 

She had spoken in French and she had used the expres- 
sion “mes transes” but for all the rest, intonation, bearing, 
solemnity, she might have been referring to one of the 
Bourbons. I am sure that not a single one of them looked 
half as aristocratic as her son. 

“I understand perfectly, Madame. But then that life 
is so romantic.” 

“Hundreds of young men belonging to a certain sphere 
are doing that,” she said very distinctly, “only their case 
is different. They have their positions, their families to 
go back to; but we are different. We are exiles, except 
of course for the ideals, the kindred spirit, the friendships 
of old standing we have in France. Should my son come 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


193 


but unscathed he has no one but me and I have no one 
but him. I have to think of his life. Mr. Mills (what 
a distinguished mind that is!) has reassured me as to my 
son’s health. But he sleeps very badly, doesn’t he?” 

I murmured something affirmative in a doubtful tone 
and she remarked quaintly, with a certain curtness, ‘‘It’s 
so unnecessary, this worry ! The unfortunate position of 
an exile has its advantages. At a certain height of social 
position (wealth has got nothing to do with it, we have 
been ruined in a most righteous cause), at a certain estab- 
lished height one can disregard narrow prejudices. You 
see examples in the aristocracies of all the countries. 
A chivalrous young American may offer his life for a 
remote ideal which yet may belong to his familial tradition. 
We, in our great country, have every sort of tradition. 
But a young man of good connections and distinguished 
relations must settle down some day, dispose of his life.” 

“No doubt, Madame,” I said, raising my eyes to 
the figure outside — Americain^ Catholique et gentil- 
homme "' — walking up and down the path with a cigar 
which he was not smoking. “For myself, I don’t know 
anything about those necessities. I have broken away 
for ever from those things.” 

“Yes, Mr. Mills talked to me about you. What a 
golden heart that is. His sympathies are infinite.” 

I thought suddenly of Mills pronouncing on Mme. 
Blunt, whatever his text on me might have been: “She 
lives by her wits.” Was she exercising her wits on me 
for some purpose of her own? And I observed coldly: 

“I really know your son so very little.” 

“Oh, voyonsr she protested. “I am aware that you 
a^’e very much younger, but the similitudes of opinions, 


194 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


origins and perhaps at bottom, faintly, of character, ot 
chivalrous devotion — no, you must be able to under- 
stand him in a measure. He is infinitely scrupulous and 
recklessly brave.” 

I listened deferentially to the end yet with every nerve 
in my body tingling in hostile response to the Blunt vi- 
bration, which seemed to have got into my very hair. 

“I am convinced of it, Madame. I have even heard of 
your son’s bravery. It’s extremely natural in a man 
who, in his own words, ‘lives by his sword.’ ” 

She suddenly departed from her almost inhuman per- 
fection, betrayed “nerves” like a common mortal, of 
course very slightly, but in her it meant more than a 
blaze of fury from a vessel of inferior clay. Her admir- 
able little foot, marvellously shod in a black shoe, tapped 
the floor irritably. But even in that display there was 
something exquisitely delicate. The very anger in her 
voice was silvery, as it were, and more like the petulance 
of a seventeen-year-old beauty. 

“What nonsense! A Blunt doesn’t hire himself.” 

“Some princely families,” I said, “were foimded by 
men who have done that very thing. The great Con- 
dottieri, you know.” 

It was in an almost tempestuous tone that she made 
me observe that we were not living in the fifteenth cen- 
tury. She gave me also to understand with some spirit 
that there was no question here of founding a family. 
Her son was very far from being the first of the name. 
His importance lay rather in being the last of a race 
which had totally perished, she added in a completely 
drawing-room tone, “In our Civil War.” 

, She had mastered her irritation and through the glassy 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


195 


side of the room sent a wistful smile to his address, but 
I noticed the yet unextinguished anger in her eyes full of 
fire under her beautiful white eyebrows. For she was 
growing old! Oh, yes, she was growing old, and secretly 
weary, and perhaps desperate. 


Ill 


W ITHOUT caring much about it I was conscious 
of sudden illumination. I said to myself confi- 
dently that these two people had been quarrel- 
ling all the morning. I had discovered the secret of my 
invitation to that lunch. They did not care to face the 
strain of some obstinate, inconclusive discussion for fear, 
maybe, of it ending in a serious quarrel. And so they had 
agreed that I should be fetched downstairs to create a 
diversion. I cannot say I felt annoyed. I didn’t care. 
My perspicacity did not please me either. I wished they 
had left me alone — but nothing mattered. They must 
have been in their superiority accustomed to make use 
of people, without compunction. From necessity, too. 
She especially. She lived by her wits. The silence had 
grown so marked that I had at last to raise my eyes; and 
the first thing that I observed was that Captain Blunt 
was no longer to be seen in the garden. Must have gone 
indoors. Would rejoin us in a moment. Then I would 
leave mother and son to themselves. 

The next thing that I noticed was that a great mellow- 
ness had descended upon the mother of the last of his 
race. But these terms, irritation, mellowness, ap- 
peared gross when applied to her. It is impossible to 
give an idea of the refinement and subtlety of all her 
transformations. She smiled faintly at me. 

“But all this is beside the point. The rea' point is 
that my son, like all fine natures, is a being o * strange 
196 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


197 


contradictions which the trials of life have not yet recon- 
ciled in him. With me it is a little different. The trials 
fell mainly to my share — and of course I have lived 
longer. And then men are much more complex than 
women, much more diflBcult, too. And you, Monsieur 
George.^ Are you complex, with unexpected resistances 
and difficulties in your Hre intime — your inner self? I 
wonder now . . . 

The Blunt atmosphere seemed to vibrate all over my 
skin. I disregarded the symptom. ^‘Madame,’’ I said, 
‘T have never tried to find out what sort of being I am.’' 

‘'Ah, that’s very wrong. We ought to reflect on what 
manner of beings we are. Of course we are all sinners. 
My John is a sinner like the others,” she declared fur- 
ther, with a sort of proud tenderness as though our com- 
mon lot must have felt honoured and to a certain extent 
purified by this condescending recognition. 

‘‘You are too young perhaps as yet . . • But 
as to my John,” she broke off, leaning her elbow on 
the table and supporting her head on her old, impeccably 
shaped, white fore-arm emerging from a lot of precious, 
still older, lace trimming the short sleeve. “The 
trouble is that he suffers from a profound discord between 
the necessary reactions to life and even the impulses of 
nature and the lofty idealism of his feelings; I may say, 
of his principles. I assure you that he won’t even let his 
heart speak uncontradicted.” 

I am sure I don’t know what particular devil looks 
after the associations of memory, and I can’t even imag- 
ine the shock which it would have been for Mrs. Blunt 
to learn that the words issuing from her lips had awak- 
ened in me the visual perception of a dark-skinned, hard- 


198 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


driven lady’s maid with tarnished eyes; even of the tire* 
less Rose handing me my hat while breathing out the 
enigmatic words: “Madame should listen to her heart.” 
A wave from the atmosphere of another house rolled in, 
overwhelming and fiery, seductive and cruel, through the 
Blunt vibration, bursting through it as through tissue 
paper and filling my heart with sweet murmurs and dis- 
tracting images, till it seemed to break, leaving an empty 
stillness in my breast. 

After that for a long time I heard Mme. Blunt 
talking with extreme fluency and I even caught the indi- 
vidual words, but I could not in the revulsion of my feel- 
ings get hold of the sense. She talked apparently of life 
in general, of its diflBculties, moral and physical, of its 
surprising turns, of its unexpected contacts, of the choice 
and rare personalities that drift on it as if on the sea; of 
the distinction that letters and art gave to it, the nobil- 
ity and consolations there are in aesthetics, of the privi- 
leges they confer on individuals and (this was the first 
connected statement I caught) that Mills agreed with 
her in the general point of view as to the inner worth of 
individualities and in the particular instance of it on 
which she had opened to him her innermost heart. Mills 
had a universal mind. His sympathy was universal, too. 
He had that large comprehension — oh, not cynical, not 
at all cynical, in fact rather tender — which was found in 
its perfection only in some rare, very rare Englishmen. 
The dear creature was romantic, too. Of course he was 
reserved in his speech but she understood Mills perfectly. 
Mills apparently liked me very much. 

It was time for me to say something. There was 
a challenge in the reposeful black eyes resting upon my 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


199 


face. I murmured that I was very glad to hear it. She 
waited a little, then uttered meaningly, “Mr. Mills is 
a little bit uneasy about you.” 

“It’s very good of him,” I said. And indeed I thought 
that it was very good of him, though I did ask myself 
vaguely in my dulled brain why he should be uneasy. 
Somehow it didn’t occur to me to ask Mrs. Blunt. 
Whether she had expected me to do so or not I don’t 
know but after a while she changed the pose she had 
kept so long and folded her wonderfully preserved white 
arms. She looked a perfect picture in silver and grey, 
with touches of black here and there. Still I said noth- 
ing more in my dull misery. She waited a little longer, 
then she woke me up with a crash. It was as if the house 
had fallen, and yet she had only asked me: 

“I believe you are received on very friendly terms by 
Madame de Lastaola on account of your common exer- 
tions for the cause. Very good friends, are you not?” 

“You mean Rita,” I said stupidly, but I felt stupid, 
like a man who wakes up only to be hit on the head. 

“Oh, Rita,” she repeated with unexpected acidity, 
which somehow made me feel guilty of an incredible 
breach of good manners. “H’m, Rita. . . . Oh, 

well, let it be Rita — for the present. Though why she 
should be deprived of her name in conversation about 
her, really I don’t understand Unless a very special in- 
timacy . . 

She was distinctly annoyed. I said sulkily, “It isn’t 
her name.” 

“It is her choice, I understand, which seems almost a 
better title to recognition on the part of the world. It 
didn’t strike you so before? Well, it seems to me that 


200 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


choice has got more right to be respected than heredity 
or law. Moreover, Mme. de Lastaola,” she continued in 
an insinuating voice, “that most rare and fascinating 
young woman is, as a friend like you cannot deny, out- 
side legality altogether. Even in that she is an excep- 
tional creature. For she is exceptional — you agree?” 

I had gone dumb, I could only stare at her. 

“Oh, I see, you agree. No friend of hers could deny.” 

“Madame,” I burst out, “I don’t know where a ques- 
tion of friendship comes in here with a person whom you 
yourself call so exceptional. I really don’t know how 
she looks upon me. Our intercourse is of course very 
close and confidential. Is that also talked about in 
Paris?” 

“Not at all, not in the least,” said Mrs. Blunt, easy, 
equable, but with her calm, sparkling eyes holding me in 
angry subjection. “Nothing of the sort is being talked 
about. The references to Mme. de Lastaola are in a 
very different tone, I can assure you, thanks to her dis- 
cretion in remaining here. And, I must say, thanks to 
the discreet efforts of her friends. I am also a friend of 
Mme. de Lastaola, you must know. Oh, no, I have never 
spoken to her in my life and have seen her only twice, I 
believe. I wrote to her though, that I admit. She or 
rather the image of her has come into my life, into that 
part of it where art and letters reign undisputed like a 
sort of religion of beauty to which I have been faithful 
through all the vicissitudes of my existence. Yes, I did 
write to her and I have been preoccupied with her for a 
long time. It arose from a picture, from two pictures 
and also from a phrase pronounced by a man, who in the 
science of life and in the perception of sesthetic truth 


201 


,THE ARROW OF GOLD 

had no equal in the world of culture. He said that there 
was something in her of the women of all time. I sup- 
pose he meant the inheritance of all the gifts that make 
up an irresistible fascination — a great personality. Such 
women are not born often. Most of them lack oppor- 
tunities. They never develop. They end obscurely. 
Here and there one survives to make her mark — even 
in history. . . . And even that is not a very envi- 
able fate. They are at another pole from the so-called, 
dangerous women who are merely coquettes. A coquette 
has got to work for her success. The others have nothing 
to do but simply exist. You perceive the view I take of 
the difference?’’ 

I perceived the view. I said to myself that nothing in 
the world could be more aristocratic. This was the 
slave-owning woman who had never worked, even if she 
had been reduced to live by her wits. She was a won- 
derful old woman. She made me dumb. She held me 
fascinated by the well-bred attitude, something sublime- 
ly aloof in her air of wisdom. 

I just simply let myself go admiring her as though 1 
had been a mere slave of sesthetics : the perfect grace, the 
amazing poise of that venerable head, the assured as if 
royal — yes, royal — even flow of the voice. 

But what was it she was talking about now? These were 
no longer considerations about fatal women. She was 
talking about her son again. My interest turned into 
mere bitterness of contemptuous attention. For I 
couldn’t withhold it though I tried to let the stuff go by. 
Educated in the most aristocratic college in Paris . 
at eighteen . . . call of duty . . . with General 

Lee to the very last cruel minute . . . after that 


202 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


catastrophe — end of the world — return to France — ■ 
to old friendships, infinite kindness — but a life hollow, 
without occupation. . . . Then 1870 — and chiv- 

alrous response to adopted country’s call and again emp- 
tiness, the chafing of a proud spirit without aim and 
handicapped not exactly by poverty but by lack of for- 
tune. And she, the mother, having to look on at this 
wasting of a most accomplished man, of a most chivalrous 
nature that practically had no future before it. 

“You understand me well. Monsieur George. A 
nature like this! It is the most refined cruelty of fate to 
look at. I don’t know whether I suffered more in times 
of war or in times of peace. You understand?” 

I bowed my head in silence. What I couldn’t under- 
stand was why he delayed so long in joining us again. 
Unless he had had enough of his mother? I thought 
without any great resentment that I was being victim- 
ized; but then it occurred to me that the cause of his 
absence was quite simple. I was familiar enough with 
his habits by this time to know that he often managed to 
snatch an hour’s sleep or so during the day. He had 
gone and thrown himself on his bed. 

“I admire him exceedingly,” Mrs. Blunt was saying in 
a tone which was not at all maternal. “His distinction, 
his fastidiousness, the earnest warmth of his heart. I 
know him well. I assure you that I would never have 
dared to suggest,” she continued with an extraordinary 
haughtiness of attitude and tone that aroused my atten- 
tion, “I would never have dared to put before him my 
views of the extraordinary merits and the uncertain fate 
of the exquisite woman of whom we speak, if I had not 
been certain that, partly by my fault, I admit, his atten- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 203 

tion has been attracted to her and his — his — his heart 
engaged/’ 

It was as if some one had poured a bucket of cold 
water over my head. I woke up with a great shudder to 
the acute perception of my own feelings and of that aris- 
tocrat’s incredible purpose. How it could have germi- 
nated, grown and matured in that exclusive soil was in- 
conceivable. She had been inciting her son all the time 
to undertake wonderful salvage work by annexing the 
heiress of Henry Allegre — the woman and the fortune. 

There must have been an amazed incredulity in my 
eyes, to which her own responded by an unflinching 
black brilliance which suddenly seemed to develop a 
scorching quality even to the point of making me feel ex- 
tremely thirsty all of a sudden. For a time my tongue 
literally clove to the roof of my mouth. I don’t know 
whether it was an illusion but it seemed to me that Mrs. 
Blunt had nodded imperceptibly at me twice as if to 
say: *‘You are right, that’s so.” I made an effort to 
speak but it was very poor. If she did hear me it was 
because she must have been on the watch for the faintest 
sound. 

*‘His heart engaged. Like two hundred others, or two 
thousand, all around,” I mumbled. 

“Altogether different. And it’s no disparagement to a 
woman surely. Of course her great fortune protects her 
in a certain measure.” 

“Does it.^” I faltered out and that time I really doubt 
whether she heard me. Her aspect in my eyes had 
changed. Her purpose being disclosed, her well-bred ease 
appeared sinister, her aristocratic repose a treacherous 
device, her venerable graciousness a mask of unbounded 


204 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


contempt for all human beings whatever. She was a ter- 
rible old woman with those straight, white wolfish eye- 
brows. How blind I had been! Those eyebrows alone 
ought to have been enough to give her away. Yet they 
were as beautifully smooth as her voice when she admit- 
ted: ‘‘That protection naturally is only partial. There 
is the danger of her own self, poor girl. She requires 
guidance.’’ 

I marvelled at the villainy of my tone as I spoke, but 
it was only assumed. 

“I don’t think she has done badly for herself, so far,” 
I forced myself to say. “I suppose you know that she 
began life by herding the village goats.” 

In the course of that phrase I noticed her wince just 
the least bit. Oh, yes, she winced; but at the end of it 
she smiled easily. 

“No, I didn’t know. So she told you her story! Oh, 
well, I suppose you are very good friends. A goatherd — 
really.^ In the fairy tale I believe the girl that marries 
the prince is — what is it.^ — a gardeuse d'oies. And 
what a thing to drag out against a woman. One might 
just as soon reproach any of them for coming unclothed 
into the world. They all do, you know. And then they 
become — what you will discover when you have lived 
longer. Monsieur George — for the most part futile crea- 
tures, without any sense of truth and beauty, drudges of 
all sorts, or else dolls to dress. In a word — ordinary.” 

The implication of scorn in her tranquil manner was im- 
mense. It seemed to condemn all those that were not born 
in the Blunt connection. It was the perfect pride of Re- 
publican aristocracy, which has no gradations and knows 
no limit, and, as if created by the grace of God, thinks it 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 205 

ennobles everything it touches: people, ideas, even pass- 
ing tastes ! 

“How many of them,” pursued Mrs. Blunt, “have had 
the good fortune, the leisure to develop their intelligence 
and their beauty in aesthetic conditions as this charming 
woman had.^ Not one in a million. Perhaps not one in 
an age.” 

“The heiress of Henry Allegre,” I murmured. 

“ Precisely. But John wouldn’t be marrying the heiress 
of Henry Allegre.” 

It was the first time that the frank word, the clear idea, 
came into the conversation and it made me feel ill with 
a sort of enraged faintness. 

“No,” I said. “It would be Mme. de Lastaola 
then.” 

“Mme. la Comtesse de Lastaola as soon as she likes 
after the success of this war.” 

“And you believe in its success?” 

“Do you?” 

“Not for a moment,” I declared, and was surprised to 
see her look pleased. 

She was an aristocrat to the tips of her fingers; she really 
didn’t care for anybody. She had passed through the 
Empire, she had lived through a siege, had rubbed shoul- 
ders with the Commune, had seen everything, no doubt, 
of what men are capable in the pursuit of their desires or 
in the extremity of their distress, for love, for money, 
and even for honour; and in her precarious connection 
with the very highest spheres she had kept her own 
honourability unscathed while she had lost all her preju- 
dices. She was above all that. Perhaps “the world” 
was the only thing that could have the slightest checking 


206 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


influence; but wben I ventured to say something about 
the view it might take of such an alliance she looked at 
me for a moment with visible surprise. 

“My dear Monsieur George, I have lived in the great 
world all my life. It’s the best that there is, but that’s 
only because there is nothing merely decent anywhere. 
It will accept anything, forgive anything, forget anything 
in a few days. And after all who will he be marrying? A 
charming, clever, rich and altogether uncommon woman. 
What did the world hear of her? Nothing. The little 
it saw of her was in the Bois for a few hours every year, 
riding by the side of a man of unique distinction and of 
exclusive tastes, devoted to the cult of sesthetic impres- 
sions; a man of whom, as far as aspect, manner, and be- 
haviour goes, she might have been the daughter. I have 
seen her myself. I went on purpose. I was immensely 
struck. I was even moved. Yes. She might have been 
— except for that something radiant in her that marked 
her apart from all the other daughters of men. The few 
remarkable personalities that count in society and who 
were admitted into Henry Allegre’s Pavilion treated her 
with pimctilious reserve. I know that, I have made 
enquiries. I know she sat there amongst them like a 
marvellous child, and for the rest what can they say 
about her? That when abandoned to herself by the death 
of Allegre she has made a mistake? I think that any 
woman ought to be allowed one mistake in her life. The 
worst they can say of her is that she discovered it, that she 
had sent away a man in love directly she found out 
that his love was not worth having; that she had told 
hirtt to go and look for his crown, and that, after dismissing 
him, she had remained generously faithful to his cause. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 207 

in her person and fortune. And this, you will allow, is 
rather uncommon upon the whole/’ 

‘‘You make her out very magnificent,” I murmured, 
looking down upon the floor. 

“Isn’t she.?^” exclaimed the aristocratic Mrs. Blunt, 
with an almost youthful ingenuousness and in those black 
eyes which looked at me so calmly there was a flash of the 
Southern beauty, still naive and romantic, as if altogether 
untouched by experience. “I don’t think there is a 
single grain of vulgarity in all her enchanting person. 
Neither is there in my son. I suppose you won’t deny 
that he is uncommon.” She paused. 

“Absolutely,” I said in a perfectly conventional tone. 
I was now on my mettle that she should not discover what 
there was humanly common in my nature. She took my 
answer at her own valuation and was satisfied. 

“They can’t fail to understand each other on the very 
highest level of idealistic perceptions. Can you imagine 
my John thrown away on some enamoured white goose 
out of a stuffy old salon. Why, she couldn’t even begin 
to understand what he feels or what he needs.” 

“Yes,” I said impenetrably, “he is not easy to under- 
stand.” 

“I have reason to think,” she said with a suppressed 
smile, “that he has a certain power over women. Of 
course I don’t know anything about his intimate life but 
a whisper or two have reached me, like that, floating in 
the air, and I could hardly suppose that he would find an 
exceptional resistance in that quarter of all others. But 
I should like to know the exact degree.” 

I disregarded an annoying tendency to feel dizzy that 
came over me and was very careful in managing my voice. 


208 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“May I ask, Madame, why you are telling me all this?” 

“For two reasons,” she condescended graciously. 
“First of all because Mr. Mills told me that you were 
much more mature than one would expect. In fact, you 
look much younger than I was prepared for.” 

“Madame,” I interrupted her, “I may have a certain 
capacity for action and for responsibility, but as to the 
regions into which this very unexpected conversation has 
taken me I am a great novice. They are outside my 
interest. I have had no experience.” 

“Don’t make yourself out so hopeless,” she said in a 
spoilt beauty tone. “You have your intuitions. At any 
rate you have a pair of eyes. You are everlastingly over 
there, so I understand. Surely you have seen how far 
they are . . ” 

I interrupted again and this time bitterly, but always 
in a tone of polite enquiry: 

“You think her facile, Madame?” 

She looked offended. “I think her most fastidious. 
It is my son who is in question here.” 

And I understood then that she looked on her son as 
irresistible. For my part I was just beginning to think 
that it would be impossible for me to wait for his return. 
I figured him to myself lying dressed on his bed sleeping 
like a stone. But there was no denying that the mother 
was holding me with an awful, tortured interest. Twice 
Therese had opened the door, had put her small head in 
and drawn it back like a tortoise. But for some time I 
had lost the sense of us two being quite alone in the 
studio. I had perceived the familiar dummy in its corner 
but it lay now on the floor as if Therese had knocked it 
down angrily with a broom for a heathen idol. It lay 


THE ARROW ^OF GOLD ^ 209 

there prostrate, handless, without its head, pathetic, like 
the mangled victim of a crime. 

‘‘ John is fastidious, too,’' began Mrs. Blunt again. Of 
course you wouldn’t suppose anything vulgar in his resis- 
tances to a very real sentiment. One has got to under- 
stand his psychology. He can’t leave himself in peace. 
He is exquisitely absurd.” 

I recognized the phrase. Mother and son talked of 
each other in identical terms. But perhaps "‘exquisitely 
absurd” was the Blunt family saying.^ There are such 
sayings in families and generally there is some truth in 
them. Perhaps this old woman was simply absurd. 
She continued: 

“We had a most painful discussion all this morning. 
He is angry with me for suggesting the very thing his 
whole being desires. I don’t feel guilty. It’s he who is 
tormenting himself with his infinite scrupulosity.” 

“Ah,” I said, looking at the mangled dummy like the 
model of some atrocious murder. “Ah, the fortune. 
But that can be left alone.” 

“What nonsense! How is it possible.^ It isn’t con- 
tained in a bag, you can’t throw it into the sea. And, 
moreover, it isn’t her fault. I am astonished that you 
should have thought of that vulgar hypocrisy. No, it 
isn’t her fortune that checks my son; it’s something much 
more subtle. Not so much her history as her position. 
He is absurd. It isn’t what has happened in her life. It’s 
her very freedom that makes him torment himself and 
her, too — as far as I can understand.” 

I suppressed a groan and said to myself that I must 
really get away from there. 

Mrs, Blunt was fairly launched now. 


210 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“For all his superiority he is a man of the world and 
shares to a certain extent its current opinions. He has 
no power over her. She intimidates him. He wishes he 
had never set eyes on her. Once or twice this morning 
he looked at me as if he could find it in his heart to hate 
his old mother. There is no doubt about it — he loves 
her, Monsieur George. He loves her, this poor, luckless, 
perfect homme du monde.” 

The silence lasted for some time and then I heard a 
murmur: “It’s a matter of the utmost delicacy between 
two beings so sensitive, so proud. It has to be managed.” 

I found myself suddenly on my feet and saying with 
the utmost politeness that I had to beg her permission to 
leave her alone as I had an engagement; but she motioned 
me simply to sit down — and I sat down again. 

“I told you I had a request to make,” she said. “I 
have understood from Mr. Mills that you have been to 
the West Indies, that you have some interests there.” 

I was astounded. “Interests! I certainly have been 
there,” I said, “but . . .” 

She caught me up. “Then why not go there again. 
I am speaking to you frankly because . . . ” 

“But, Madame, I am engaged in this affair with Dona 
Rita, even if I had any interests elsewhere. I won’t tell 
you about the importance of my work. I didn’t suspect 
it but you brought the news of it to me, and so I needn’t 
point it out to you.” 

And now we were frankly arguing with each other. 

“But where will it lead you in the end? You have all 
your life before you, all your plans, prospects, perhaps 
dreams, at any rate your own tastes and all your life-time 
before you. And would you sacrifice all this to — the 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 211 

Pretender? A mere figure for the front page of illus- 
trated papers/’ 

‘T never think of him,” I said curtly, ‘‘but I suppose 
Dona Rita’s feelings, instincts, call it what you like — or 
only her chivalrous fidelity to her mistake ” 

"‘Dona Rita’s presence here in this town, her with- 
drawal from the possible complications of her life in Paris 
has produced an excellent effect on my son. It simplifies 
infinite difficulties, I mean moral as well as material. 
It’s extremely to the advantage of her dignity, of her 
future, and of her peace of mind. But I am thinking, of 
course, mainly of my son. He is most exacting.” 

I felt extremely sick at heart. “And so I am to drop 
everything and vanish,” I said, rising from my chair 
again. And this time Mrs. Blunt got up, too, with a lofty 
and inflexible manner but she didn’t dismiss me yet. 

“Yes,” she said distinctly. “All this, my dear Mon- 
sieur George, is such an accident. What have you got to 
do here? You look to me like somebody who would find 
adventures wherever he went as interesting and perhaps 
less dangerous than this one.” 

She slurred over the word dangerous but I picked 
it up. 

“What do you know of its dangers, Madame, may I 
ask?” But she did not condescend to hear. 

“And then you, too, have your chivalrous feelings,” she 
went on, unswerving, distinct, and tranquil. “You are 
not absurd. But my son is. He would shut her up in a 
convent for a time if he could.” 

“He isn’t the only one,” I muttered. 

“Indeed!” she was startled, then lower, “Yes. That 
woman must be the centre of all sorts of passions,” she 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


'212 

mused audibly. “But what have you got to do with all 
this? It’s nothing to you.” 

She waited for me to speak. 

“Exactly, Madame,” I said, “and therefore I don’t 
see why I should concern myself in all this one way or 
another.” 

“No,” she assented with a weary air, “except that you 
might ask yourself what is the good of tormenting a man 
of noble feelings, however absurd. His Southern blood 

makes him very violent sometimes. I fear ” And 

then for the first time during this conversation, for the first 
time since I left Dona Rita the day before, for the first 
time I laughed. 

“Do you mean to hint, Madame, that Southern gentle- 
men are dead shots? I am aware of that — from novels.” 

I spoke looking her straight in the face and I made that 
exquisite, aristocratic old woman positively blink by my 
directness. There was a faint fiush on her delicate old 
cheeks but she didn’t move a muscle of her face. I made 
her a most respectful bow and went out of the studioo 


IV 


T hrough the great arched window of the hall 
I saw the hotel brougham waiting at the door. 
On passing the door of the front room (it was orig- 
inally meant for a drawing-room but a bed for Blunt was 
put in there) I banged with my fist on the panel and 
shouted: "'I am obliged to go out. Your mother’s car- 
riage is at the door.” I didn’t think he was asleep. My 
view now was that he was aware beforehand of the sub- 
ject of the conversation, and if so I did not wish to appear 
as if I had slunk away from him after the interview. But 
I didn’t stop — I didn’t want to see him — and before he 
could answer I was already half way up the stairs running 
noiselessly up the thick carpet which also covered the 
floor of the landing. Therefore opening the door of my 
sitting-room quickly I caught by surprise the person who 
was in there watching the street half concealed by the win- 
dow curtain. It was a woman. A totally unexpected 
woman. A perfect stranger. She came away quickly 
to meet me. Her face was veiled and she was dressed in 
a dark walking costume and a very simple form of hat. 
She murmured: ‘‘I had an idea that Monsieur was in 
the house,” raising a gloved hand to lift her veil. It was 
Rose and she gave me a shock. I had never seen her 
before but with her little black silk apron and a white 
cap with ribbons on her head. This outdoor dress was 
like a disguise. I asked anxiously: 

‘'What has happened to Madame?” 

m 


214 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


“Nothing. I have a letter,” she murmured, and I saw 
it appear between the fingers of her extended hand, in a 
very white envelope which I tore open impatiently. It 
consisted of a few lines only. It began abruptly: 

“If you are gone to sea then I can’t forgive you for not 
sending the usual word at the last moment. If you are 
not gone why don’t you come? Why did you leave me 
yesterday? You leave me crying — I who haven’t cried 
for years and years, and you haven’t the sense to come 
back within the hour, within twenty hours! This con- 
duct is idiotic” — and a sprawling signature of the four 
magic letters at the bottom. 

While I was putting the letter in my pocket the girl 
said in an earnest undertone: “I don’t like to leave Ma- 
dame by herself for any length of time.” 

“How long have you been in my room?” I asked. 

“The time seemed long. I hope Monsieur won’t mind 
the liberty. I sat for a little in the hall but then it struck 
me I might be seen. In fact, Madame told me not to be 
seen if I could help it.” 

“Why did she tell you that?” 

“I permitted myself to suggest that to Madame. It 
might have given a false impression. Madame is frank 
and open like the day but it won’t do with everybody. 
There are people who would put a wrong construction on 
anything. Madame’s sister told me Monsieur was out.” 

“And you didn’t believe her?” 

“Non, Monsieur. I have lived with Madame’s sister 
for nearly a week when she first came into this house. 
She wanted me to leave the message, but I said I would 
wait a little. Then I sat down in the big porter’s chair 
in the hall and after a while, everything being very quiet, 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


215 


I stole up here. I know the disposition of the apart- 
ments. I reckoned Madame’s sister would think that I got 
tired of waiting and let myself out.” 

“And you have been amusing yourself watching the 
street ever since 

“The time seemed long,” she answered evasively. “An 
empty coupe came to the door about an],hour ago and it’s 
still waiting,” she added, looking at me inquisitively. 
“It seems strange.” 

“There are some dancing girls staying in the 
house,” I said negligently. “Did you leave Madame 
alone?” 

“There’s the gardener and his wife in the house.” 

“Those people keep at the back. Is Madame alone? 
That’s^what I want to know.” 

“Monsieur forgets that I have been three hours away; 
but I assure Monsieur that here in this town it’s perfectly 
safe for Madame to be alone.” 

“And wouldn’t it be anywhere else? It’s the first I 
hear of it.” 

“In Paris, in our apartments in the hotel, it’s all right, 
too; but in the Pavilion, for instance, I wouldn’t leave 
Madame by herself, not for half an hour.” 

“What is there in the Pavilion?” I asked. 

“It’s a sort of feeling I have,” she murmured reluc- 
tantly . . . “Oh! There’s that coupS going away. ” 

She made a movement towards the window but checked 
herself. I hadn’t moved. The rattle of wheels on the 
cobble-stones died out almost at once. 

“Will Monsieur write an answer?” Rose suggested 
after a short silence. 

“Hardly worth while,” I said. “I will be there very 


216 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


soon after you. Meantime, please tell Madame from me 
that I am not anxious to see any more tears. Tell her 
this just like that, you understand. I will take the risk 
of not being received.” 

She dropped her eyes, said: “Out, Monsieur,” and at 
my suggestion waited, holding the door of the room half 
open, till I went downstairs to see the road clear. 

It was a kind of deaf and dumb house. The black-and- 
white hall was empty and everything was perfectly still. 
Blunt himself had no doubt gone away with his mother in 
the brougham, but as to the others, the dancing girls, 
Therese, or anybody else that its walls may have con- 
tained, they might have been all murdering each other in 
perfect assurance that the house would not betray them 
by indulging in any unseemly murmurs. I emitted a low 
whistle which didn’t seem to travel in that peculiar atmos- 
phere more than two feet away from my lips, but all the 
same Rose came tripping down the stairs at once. With 
just a nod to my whisper: “Take a fiacre,” she glided out 
and I shut the door noiselessly behind her. 

The next time I saw her she was opening the door of the 
house on the Prado to me, with her cap and the little black 
silk apron on, and with that marked personality of her 
own, which had been concealed so perfectly in the dowdy 
walking dress, very much to the fore. 

“I have given Madame the message,” she said in her 
contained voice, swinging the door wide open. Then after 
relieving me of my hat and coat she announced me with 
the simple words: “Fo^7d Monsieur,” and hurried away. 
Directly I appeared Dona Rita, away there on the couch, 
passed the tips of her fingers over her eyes and holding her 
hands up palms outwards on each side of her head, shouted 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


217 


to me down the whole length of the room : “ The dry season 
has set in.” I glanced at the pink tips of her fingers per- 
functorily and then drew back. She let her hands fall 
negligently as if she had no use for them any more and 
put on a serious expression. 

“So it seems,” I said, sitting down opposite her. “For 
how long, I wonder.” 

“For years and years. One gets so little encourage- 
ment. First you bolt away from my tears, then you send 
an impertinent message, and then when you come at 
last you pretend to behave respectfully, though you don’t 
know how to do it. You should sit much nearer the 
edge of the chair and hold yourself very stiff, and make 
it quite clear that you don’t know what to do with your 
hands.” 

All this in a fascinating voice with a ripple of badinage 
that seemed to play upon the sober surface of her thoughts. 
Then seeing that I did not answer she altered the note a 
bit. 

Amigo George,” she said, “I take the trouble to send 
for you and here I am before you, talking to you and you 
say nothing.” 

“What am I to say.?” 

“How can I tell? You might say a thousand things. 
You might, for instance, tell me that you were sorry for 
my tears.” 

“I might also tell you a thousand lies. What do I 
know about your tears? I am not a susceptible idiot. 
It all depends upon the cause. There are tears of quiet 
happiness. Peeling onions also will bring tears.” 

“Oh, you are not susceptible,” she flew out at me. 
“But you are an idiot all the same.” 


218 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“Is it to tell me this that you have written to me to 
come?” I asked with a certain animation. 

“Yes. And if you had as much sense as the talking 
parrot I owned once you would have read between the 
lines that all I wanted you here for was to tell you what 
I think of you.” 

“Well, tell me what you think of me.” 

“I would in a moment if I could be half as impertinent 
as you are.” 

“What unexpected modesty,” I said. ^ 

“These, I suppose, are your sea manners.” 

“I wouldn’t put up with half that nonsense from any- 
body at sea. Don’t you remember you told me yourself 
to go away? What was I to do?” 

“How stupid you are. I don’t mean that you pretend. 
You really are. Do you understand what I say? I will 
spell it for you. S-t-u-p-i-d. Ah, now I feel better. Oh, 
amigo George, my dear fellow-conspirator for the king — 
the king. Such a king! Vive le Roil Come, why don’t 
you shout Vive le Roi, too?” 

“I am not your parrot,” I said. 

“No, he never sulked. He was a charming, good-man- 
nered bird, accustomed to the best society, whereas you, 
I suppose, are nothing but a heartless vagabond like my- 
self.” 

“I daresay you are, but I suppose nobody had the in- 
solence to tell you that to your face.” 

“Well, very nearly. It was what it amounted to. lam 
not stupid. There is no need to spell out simple words 
forme. It just came out. Don Juan struggled desperately 
to keep the truth in. It was most pathetic. And yet he 
couldn’t help himself. He talked very much like a parrot.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


219 


‘‘Of the best society,” I suggested. 

“Yes, the most honourable of parrots. I don’t like 
parrot-talk. It sounds so uncanny. Had I lived in the 
Middle Ages I am certain I would have believed that a 
talking bird must be possessed by the devil. I am sure 
Therese would believe that now. My own sister! She 
would cross herself many times and simply quake with 
terror.” 

“But you were not terrified,” I said. “May I ask 
when that interesting communication took place?” 

“Yesterday, just before you blundered in here of all 
days in the year. I was sorry for him.” 

“Why tell me this? I couldn’t help noticing it. I re- 
gretted I hadn’t my umbrella with me.” 

“Those unforgiven tears! Oh, you simple soul! Don’t 
you know that people never cry for anybody but them- 
selves? . . . Amigo George, tell me — what are we 

doing in this world?” 

“Do you mean all the people, everybody?” 

“No, only people like you and me. Simple people, in 
this world which is eaten up with charlatanism of all 
sorts so that even we, the simple, don’t know any longer 
how to trust each other.” 

“Don’t we? Then why don’t you trust him? You are 
dying to do so, don’t you know?” 

She dropped her chin on her breast and from under her 
straight eyebrows the deep blue eyes remained fixed on 
me, impersonally, as if without thought. 

“What have you been doing since you left me yester- 
day?” she asked. 

“The first thing I remember I abused your sister hor- 
ribly this morning.” 


220 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“And how did she take it?” 

“Like a warm showei in spring. She drank it all in 
and unfolded her petals.” 

“What poetical expressions he uses! That girl is more 
perverted than one would think possible, considering 
what she is and whence she came. It’s true that I, too, 
come from the same spot.” 

“She is slightly crazy. I am a great favourite with 
her. I don’t say this to boast.” 

“It must be very comforting.” 

“Yes, it has cheered me immensely. Then after a 
morning of delightful musings on one thing and another 
I went to lunch with a charming lady and spent most of 
the afternoon talking with her.” 

Dona Rita raised her head. 

“A lady! Women seem such mysterious creatures to 
me. I don’t know them. Did you abuse her? Did she 
— how did you say that — unfold her petals, too? Was 
she really and truly . . .?” 

“She is simply perfection in her way and the conversa- 
tion was by no means banal. I fancy that if your late 
parrot had heard it, he would have fallen off his perch. 
For after all, in that Allegre Pavilion, my dear Rita, you 
were but a crowd of glorified bourgeois’* 

She was beautifully animated now. In her motionless 
blue eyes like melted sapphires, around those red lips 
that almost without moving could breathe enchanting 
sounds into the world, there was a play of light, that 
mysterious ripple of gaiety that seemed always to run 
and faintly quiver under her skin even in her gravest 
moods; just as in her rare moments of gaiety its warmth 
and radiance seemed to come to one through infinite sad- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


221 


ness, like the sunlight of our life hiding the invincible 
darkness in which the universe must work out its impene- 
trable destiny. 

“Now I think of it! . . . Perhaps that’s the rea- 

son I never could feel perfectly serious while they were 
demolishing the world about my ears. I fancy now that 
I could tell beforehand what each of them was going to 
say. They were repeating the same words over and over 
again, those great clever men, very much like parrots 
who also seem to know what they say. That doesn’t 
apply to the master of the house, who never talked much. 
He sat there mostly silent and looming up three sizes 
bigger than any of them.” 

“The ruler of the aviary,” I muttered viciously. 

“It annoys you that I should talk of that time?” she 
asked in a tender voice. “Well, I won’t, except for once 
to say that you must not make a mistake : in that aviary 
he was the man. I know because he used to talk to me 
afterwards sometimes. Strange! For six years he 
seemed to carry all the world and me with it in his 
hand . . 

“He dominates you yet,” I shouted. 

She shook her head innocently as a child would do. 

“No, no. You brought him into the conversation 
yourself. You think of him much more than I do.” Her 
voice drooped sadly to a hopeless note. “I hardly ever 
do. He is not the sort of person to merely flit through 
one’s mind and so I have no time. Look. I had eleven 
letters this morning and there were also five telegrams 
before midday, which have tangled up everything. I 
am quite frightened.” 

And she explained to me that one of them — the long 


222 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


one on the top of the pile, on the table over there- — 
seemed to contain ugly inferences directed at herself in a 
menacing way. She begged me to read it and see what I 
could make of it. 

I knew enough of the general situation to see at a 
glance that she had misunderstood it thoroughly and 
even amazingly. I proved it to her very quickly. But 
her mistake was so ingenious in its wrongheadedness and 
arose so obviously from the distraction of an acute mind, 
that I couldn’t help looking at her admiringly. 

“Rita,” I said, “you are a marvellous idiot.” 

“Am I? Imbecile,” she retorted with an enchanting 
smile of relief. “But perhaps it only seems so to you in 
contrast with the lady so perfect in her way. What is 
her way?” 

“Her way, I should say, lies somewhere between her 
sixtieth and seventieth year, and I have walked tMe-a- 
tete with her for some little distance this afternoon.” 

“Heavens,” she whispered, thunderstruck. “And 
meantime I had the son here. He arrived about five 
minutes after Rose left with that note for you,” she went 
on in a tone of awe. “As a matter of fact. Rose saw him 
across the street but she thought she had better go on to 
you.” 

“I am furious with myself for not having guessed 
that much,” I said bitterly, “I suppose you got him out 
of the house about five minutes after you heard I was 
coming here. Rose ought to have turned back when she 
saw him on his way to cheer your solitude. That girl 
is stupid after all, though she has got a certain amount 
of low cunning which no doubt is very useful at 
times.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 223 

forbid you to talk like this about Rose. I wonT 
have it. Rose is not to be abused before me.’^ 

‘‘I only meant to say that she failed in this instance to 
read your mind, that’s all.” 

‘‘This is, without exception, the most unintelligent 
thing you have said ever since I have known you. You 
may understand a lot about running contraband and 
about the minds of a certain class of people, but as to 
Rose’s mind let me tell you that in comparison with hers 
yours is absolutely infantile, my adventurous friend. It 
would be contemptible if it weren’t so — what shall I 
call it — babyish. You ought to be slapped and put to 
bed.” There was an extraordinary earnestness in her 
tone and when she ceased I listened yet to the seductive 
inflexions of her voice, that no matter in what mood she 
spoke seemed only fit for tenderness and love. And I 
thought suddenly of Azzolati being ordered to take him- 
self off from her presence for ever, in that voice the very 
anger of which seemed to twine itself gently round one’s 
heart. No wonder the poor wretch could not forget the 
scene and couldn’t restrain his tears on the plain of Ram- 
bouillet. My moods of resentment against Rita, hot as 
they were, had no more duration than a blaze of straw. 
So I only said : 

“Much you know about the management of chil- 
dren.” 

The corners of her lips stirred quaintly; her animosity, 
especially when provoked by a personal attack upon her- 
self, was always tinged by a sort of wistful humour of the 
most disarming kind. 

“Come, amigo George, let us leave poor Rose alone. 
You had better tell me what you heard from the lips of 


224 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


the charming old lady. Perfection, isn’t she? I have 
never seen her in my life, though she says she has seen 
me several times. But she has written to me on three 
separate occasions and every time I answered her as if I 
were writing to a queen. Amigo George, how does one write 
to a queen? How should a goatherd that could have been 
mistress of a king, how should she write to an old queen 
from very far away; from over the sea?” 

“I will ask you as I have asked the old queen: why do 
you tell me all this. Dona Rita?” 

“To discover what’s in your mind,” she said, a little 
impatiently. 

“If you don’t know that yet!” I exclaimed under my 
breath. 

“No, not in your mind. Can any one ever tell what is 
in a man’s mind? But I see you won’t tell.” 

“What’s the good? You have written to her before, I 
understand. Do you think of continuing the correspond- 
ence? ” 

“Who knows?” she said in a profound tone. “She is 
the only woman that ever wrote to me. I returned her 
three letters to her with my last answer, explaining 
humbly that I preferred her to burn them herself. And 
I thought that would be the end of it. But an occasion 
may still arise.” 

“Oh, if an occasion arises,” I said, trying to control 
my rage, “you may be able to begin your letter by the 
words 'Chere Maman’” 

The cigarette box, which she had taken up without re- 
moving her eyes from me, flew out of her hand and open- 
ing in mid-air scattered cigarettes for quite a surprising 
distance all over the room. I got up at once and wan- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 225 

dered off picking them up industriously. Dona Rita’s 
voice behind me said indifferently: 

"‘Don’t trouble, I will ring for Rose.” 

“No need,” I growled, without turning my head, “I 
can find my hat in the hall by myself, after I’ve finished 
picking up . . 

“Bear!” 

I returned with the box and placed it on the divan 
near her. She sat cross-legged, leaning back on her 
arms, in the blue shimmer of her embroidered robe and 
with the tawny halo of her unruly hair about her face 
which she raised to mine with an air of resignation. 

“George, my friend,” she said, “we have no manners.” 

“You would never have made a career at court. Dona 
Rita,” I observed. “You are too impulsive.” 

“This is not bad manners, that’s sheer insolence. 
This has happened to you before. If it happens again, 
as I can’t be expected to wrestle with a savage and des- 
perate smuggler single-handed, I will go upstairs and lock 
myself in my room till you leave the house. Why did 
you say this to me?” 

“Oh, just for nothing, out of a full heart.” 

“If your heart is full of things like that,' then my dear 
friend, you had better take it out and give it to the crows. 
No! you said that for the pleasure of appearing terrible. 
And you see you are not terrible at all, you are rather 
amusing. Go on, continue to be amusing. Tell me some- 
thing of what you heard from the lips of that aristocratic 
old lady who thinks that all men are equal and entitled 
to the pursuit of happiness.” 

“I hardly remember now. I heard something about 
the unworthiness of certain white geese out of stuffy 


226 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


drawing-rooms. It sounds mad, but the lady knows ex- 
actly what she wants. I also heard your praises sung, 
I sat there like a fool not knowing what to say.” 

“Why? You might have joined in the singing.” 

“I didn’t feel in the humour, because, don’t you see, 
I had been incidentally given to understand that I was 
an insignificant and superfluous person who had better 
get out of the way of serious people.” 

“Ah, par exempleV’ 

“In a sense, you know, it was flattering; but for the 
moment it made me feel as if I had been offered a pot 
of mustard to sniff.” 

She nodded with an amused air of understanding and 
I could see that she was interested. “Anything more?” 
she asked, with a flash of radiant eagerness in all her 
person and bending slightly forward towards me. 

“Oh, it’s hardly worth mentioning. It was a sort of 
threat wrapped up, I believe, in genuine anxiety as to 
what might happen to my youthful insignificance. If 
I hadn’t been rather on the alert just then I wouldn’t 
even have perceived the meaning. But really an allusion 
to ‘hot Southern blood’ could have only one meaning. 
Of course I laughed at it, but only ‘pour Vhonneur’ and 
to show I understood perfectly. In reality it left me 
completely indifferent.” 

Dona Rita looked very serious for a minute. 

“Indifferent to the whole conversation?” 

I looked at her angrily. 

“To the whole . . . You see I got up rather out 

of sorts this morning. Unrefreshed, you know. As if 
tired of life.” 

The liquid blue in her eyes remained directed at me 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


227 


without any expression except that of its usual mysteri- 
ous immobility, but all her face took on a sad and thought- 
ful cast. Then as if she had made up her mind under 
the pressure of necessity: 

“Listen, amigo,” she said, “I have suffered domination 
and it didn’t crush me because I have been strong enough 
to live with it; I have known caprice, you may call it 
folly if you like, and it left me unharmed because I w^as 
great enough not to be captured by anything that wasn’t 
really worthy of me. My dear, it went down like a 
house of cards before my breath. There is something in 
me that will not be dazzled by any sort of prestige in this 
world, worthy or unworthy. I am telling vou this be- 
cause you are younger than myself.’’ 

“If you want me to say that there is nothing petty or 
mean about you. Dona Rita, then I do say it.” 

She nodded at me with an air of accepting the ren- 
dered justice and went on with the utmost simplicity. 

“And what is it that is coming to me now with all the 
airs of virtue.^ All the lawful conventions are coming to 
me, all the glamours of respectability! And nobody can 
say that I have made as much as the slightest little sign to 
them. Not so’much as lifting my little finger. I suppose 
you know that? ” 

“I don’t know. I do not doubt your sincerity in any- 
thing you say. I am ready to believe. You are not one 
of those who have to work.” 

“Have to work — what do you mean?” 

“It’s a phrase I have heard. What I meant was that 
it isn’t necessary for you to make any signs.” ^ 

She seemed to'meditate over this for a while. 

“Don’t be so sure of that,” she said, with a flash of 


228 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 

mischief, which made her voice sound more melancholy 
than before. “I am not so sure myself,” she continued 
with a curious, vanishing, intonation of despair. “I 
don’t know the truth about myself because I never had 
an opportunity to compare myself to anything in the 
world. I have been offered mock adulation, treated with 
mock reserve or with mock devotion, I have been fawned 
upon with an appalling earnestness of purpose, I can tell 
you; but these later honours, my dear, came to me in the 
sh^e of a very loyal and very scrupulous gentleman. 
For he is all that. And as a matter of fact I was 
touched.” 

“I know. Even to tears,” I said provokingly. But 
she wasn’t provoked, she only shook her head in negation 
(which was absurd) and pursued the trend of her spoken 
thoughts. 

“That was yesterday,” she said. “And yesterday he 
was extremely correct and very full of extreme self-es- 
teem which expressed itself in the exaggerated delicacy 
with which he talked. But I know him in all his moods. 
I have known him even playful. I didn’t listen to him. 
I was thinking of something else. Of things that were 
neither correct nor playful and that had to be looked at 
steadily with all the best that was in me. And that was 
why, in the end — I cried — yesterday.” 

“I saw it yesterday and I had the weakness of being 
moved by those tears for a time.” 

“If you want to make me cry again I warn you you 
won’t succeed.” 

“No, I know. He has been here to-day and the dry 
season has set in.” 

“Yes, he has been here. I assure you it was perfectly 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


229 


unexpected. Yesterday he was railing at the world at 
large, at me who certainly have not made it, at himself and 
even at his mother. All this rather in parrot language, 
in the words of tradition and morality as understood by 
the members of that exclusive club to which he belongs. 
And yet when I thought that all this, those poor hack- 
neyed words, expressed a sincere passion I could have 
found in my heart to be sorry for him. But he ended by 
telling me that one couldn’t believe a single word I said, 
or something like that. You were here then, you hea^d 
it yourself.” 

‘‘And it cut you to the quick,” I said. “It made you 
depart from your dignity to the point of weeping on any 
shoulder that happened to be there. And considering 
that it was some more parrot talk after all (men have 
been saying that sort of thing to women from the begin- 
ning of the world) this sensibility seems to me childish.” 

“What perspicacity,” she observed, with an indulgent, 
mocking smile, then changed her tone. “Therefore he 
wasn’t expected to-day when he turned up, whereas you, 
who were expected, remained subject to the charms of 
conversation in that studio. It never occurred to you 
. did it? No! What had become of your per- 
spicacity?” 

“I tell you I was weary of life,” I said in a passion. 

She had another faint smile of a fugitive and unrelated 
kind as if she had been thinking of far-off things, then 
roused herself to grave animation. 

“He came in full of smiling playfulness. How well 
I know that mood! Such self-command has its beauty; 
but it’s no great help for a man with such fateful eyes. I 
could see he was moved in his correct, restrained way, and 


230 


THE AREOW OF GOLD 


in his own way, too, he tried to move me with something 
that would be very simple- He told me that ever since 
we became friends, we two, he had not an hour of continu- 
ous sleep, unless perhaps when coming back dead-tired 
from outpost duty, and that he longed to get back to it 
and yet hadn’t the courage to tear himself away from here. 
He was as simple as that. He’s a trh gallant homme of 
absolute probity, even with himself. I said to him: The 
trouble is, Don Juan, that it isn’t love but mistrust that 
keeps you in torment. I might have said jealousy, but I 
didn’t like to use that word. A parrot would have added 
that I had given him no right to be jealous. But I am 
no parrot. I recognized the rights of his passion which 
I could very well see. He is jealous. He is not jealous of 
my past or of the future; but he is jealously mistrustful 
of me, of what I am, of my very soul. He believes in a 
soul in the same way Therese does, as something that can 
be touched with grace or go to perdition; and he doesn’t 
want to be damned with me before his own judgment 
seat. He is a most noble and loyal gentleman, but I have 
my own Basque peasant soul and don’t want to think that 
every time he goes away from my feet — yes, mon cher, on 
this , carpet, look for the marks of scorching — that he 
goes away feeling tempted to brush the dust off his 
moral sleeve. That! Never!” 

With brusque movements she took a cigarette out of 
the box, held it in her fingers for a moment, then dropped 
it unconsciously. 

“And then, I don’t love him,” she uttered slowly as if 
speaking to herself and at the same time watching the 
very quality of that thought. “I never did. At first he 
fascinated me with his fatal aspect and his cold society 


231 


i^THE ARROW OF GOLD 

smiles. But I have looked into those eyes too often. 
There are too many disdains in this aristocratic republi- 
can without a home. His fate may be cruel, but it will 
always be commonplace. While he sat there trying in a 
worldly tone to explain to me the problems, the scruples, 
of his suffering honour, I could see right into his heart 
and I was sorry for him. I was sorry enough for him to 
feel that if he had suddenly taken me by the throat and 
strangled me slowly, avec delices, I could forgive him 
while I choked. How correct he was! But bitterness 
against me peeped out of every second phrase. At last 
I raised my hand and said to him, "Enough.’ I believe 
he was shocked by my plebeian abruptness but he was too 
polite to show it. His conventions will always stand in 
the way of his nature. I told him that everything that 
had been said and don^ during the last seven or eight 
months was inexplicable unless on the assumption that he 
was in love with me, — and yet in everything there was 
an implication that he couldn’t forgive me my very exis- 
tence. I did ask him whether he didn’t think that it was 
absurd on his part . . . ” 

""Didn’t you say that it was exquisitely absurd?” I 
asked. 

""Exquisitely! . . Dona Rita was surprised at 

my question. ""No. Why should I say that?” 

"" It would have reconciled him to your abruptness. It’s 
their family expression. It would have come with a 
familiar sound and would have been less offensive.” 

""Offensive,” Dona Rita repeated earnestly. ""I don’t 
think he was offended; he suffered in another way, but I 
didn’t care for that. It was I that had become offended 
in the end, without spite, you understand, but past bear- 


232 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


ing. I didn’t spare him. I told him plainly that to want 
a woman formed in mind and body, mistress of herself, 
free in her choice, independent in her thoughts; to love 
her apparently for what she is and at the same time to 
demand from her the candour and the innocence that could 
be only a shocking pretense; to know her such as life had 
made her and at the same time to despise her secretly for 
every touch with which her life had fashioned her — that 
was neither generous nor high minded : it was positively 
frantic. He got up and went away to lean against the 
mantelpiece, there, on his elbow and with his head 
in his hand. You have no idea of the charm and the 
distinction of his pose. I couldn’t help admiring him: 
the expression, the grace, the fatal suggestion of his 
immobility. Oh, yes, I am sensible to aesthetic im- 
pressions, I have been educated to believe that there 
is a soul in them.” 

With that enigmatic, under the eyebrows glance fixed 
on me she laughed her deep contralto laugh without mirth 
but also without irony, and profoundly moving by the 
mere purity of the sound. 

“I suspect he was never so disgusted and appalled in 
his life. His self-command is the most admirable worldly 
thing I have ever seen. What made it beautiful was that 
one could feel in it a tragic suggestion as in a great work of 
art.” 

She paused with an inscrutable smile that a great 
painter might have put on the face of some symbolic 
figure for the speculation and wonder of many genera- 
tions. I said: 

‘T always thought that love for you could work great 
wonders. And now I am certain.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 23S 

“Are you trying to be ironic,” she said sadly and very 
much as a child might have spoken. 

“I don’t know,” I answered in a tone of the same sim- 
plicity. “I find it very diflBcult to be generous.” 

“I, too,” she said with a sort of funny eagerness. “I 
didn’t treat him very generously. Only I didn’t say 
much more. I found I didn’t care what I said — and it 
would have been like throwing insults at a beautiful 
composition. He was well inspired not to move. It has 
spared him some disagreeable truths and perhaps I would 
even have said more than the truth. I am not fair. 
I am no more fair than other people. I would have been 
harsh. My very admiration was making me more an- 
gry. It seems ridiciiloiis to say of a man got up in 
correct tailor clothes, but there was a funereal grace in his 
attitude so that he might have been reproduced in marble 
on a monument to some woman in one of those atrocious 
Campo Santos: the bourgeois conception of an aristo- 
cratic mourning lover. When I came to that conclusion 
I became glad that I was angry or else I would have 
laughed right out before him.” 

“I have heard a woman say once, a woman of the 
people — do you hear me. Dona Rita? — therefore deserv- 
ing your attention, that one should never laugh at love.” 

“My dear,” she said gently, “I have been taught to 
laugh at most things by a man who never laughed himself; 
but it’s true that he never spoke of love to me, love as a 
subject that is. So perhaps . . . But why?” 

“Because (but maybe that old woman was crazy) be- 
cause, she said, there was death in the mockery of love.” 

Doha Rita moved slightly her beautiful shoulders and 
went on: 


THE AEROW OF GOLD 


“I am glad, then, I didn’t laugh. And I am also glad 
I said nothing more. I was feeling so generous that if I had 
known something then of his mother’s allusion to ‘white 
geese’ I would have advised him to get one of them and 
lead it away on a beautiful blue ribbon. Mrs. Blunt was 
wrong, you know, to be so scornful. A white goose is 
exactly what her son wants. But look how badly the 
world is arranged. Such white birds cannot be got for 
nothing and he has not enough money even to buy a 
ribbon. Who knows! Maybe it was this which gave 
that tragic quality to his pose by the mantelpiece over 
there. Yes, that was it. Though no doubt I didn’t see 
it then. As he didn’t offer to move after I had done speak- 
ing I became quite unaffectedly sorry and advised him 
very gently to dismiss me from his mind definitely. He 
moved forward then and said to me in his usual voice and 
with his usual smile that it would have been excellent 
advice but unfortunately I was one of those women who 
can’t be dismissed at will. And as I shook my head he 
insisted rather darkly: ‘Oh, yes. Dona Rita, it is so. 
Cherish no illusions about that fact.’ It sounded so 
threatening that in my surprise I didn’t even acknowledge 
his parting bow. He went out of that false situation like 
a wounded man retreating after a fight. No, I have 
nothing to reproach myself with. I did nothing. I led 
him into nothing. Whatever illusions have passed 
through my head I kept my distance, and he was so loyal 
to what he seemed to think the redeeming proprieties of 
the situation that he has gone from me for good without 
so much as kissing the tips of my fingers. He must have 
felt like a man who had betrayed himself for nothing. 
It’s horrible. It’s the fault of that enormous fortune of 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


235 


mine, and I wish with all my heart that I could give it to 
him; for he couldn’t help his hatred of the thing that is: 
and as to his love, which is just as real, well — could I 
have rushed away from him to shut myself up in a con- 
vent? Could I? After all I have a right to my share of 
daylight.” 


V 


1 T00K my eyes from her face and became aware that 
dusk was beginning to steal into the room. How 
strange it seemed. Except for the glazed rotunda 
part its long walls, divided into narrow panels separated 
by an order of flat pilasters, presented, depicted on a 
black background and in vivid colours, slender women 
with butterfly wings and lean youths with narrow birds’ 
wings. The effect was supposed to be Pompeiian and 
Rita and I had often laughed at the delirious fancy of 
some enriched shopkeeper. But still it was a display 
of fancy, a sign of grace; but at that moment these figures 
appeared to me weird and intrusive and strangely alive 
in their attenuated grace of imearthly beings concealing 
a power to see and hear. 

Without words, without gestures. Dona Rita was 
heard again. “It may have been as near coming to pass 
as this.” She showed me the breadth of her little finger 
nail. “Yes, as near as that. Why? How? Just like that, 
for nothing. Because it had come up. Because a wild 
notion had entered a practical old woman’s head. Yes. 
And the best of it is that I have nothing to complain of. 
Had I surrendered I would have been perfectly safe with 
these two. It is they or rather he who couldn’t trust me, 
or rather that something which I express, which I stand 
for. Mills would never tell me what it was. Perhaps he 
didn’t know exactly himself. He said it was something 
like genius. My genius! Oh, I am not conscious of it, 
«86 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


237 


believe me, I am not conscious of it. But if I were I 
wouldn’t pluck it out and cast it away. I am ashamed of 
nothing, of nothing! Don’t be stupid enough to think 
that I have the slightest regret. There is no regret. 
First of all because I am I — and then because . 

My dear, believe me, I have had a horrible time of it 
myself lately.” 

This seemed to be the last word. Outwardly quiet, all 
the time, it was only then that she became composed 
enough to light an enormous cigarette of the same pat- 
tern as those made specially for the king — for el Rey! 
After a time, tipping the ash into the bowl on her left 
hand, she asked me in a friendly, almost tender, tone: 

“What are you thinking of, amigo? 

“I was thinking of your immense generosity. You 
want to give a crown to one man, a fortune to another. 
That is very fine. But I suppose there is a limit to your 
generosity somewhere.” 

‘ I don’t see why there should be any limit — to fine 
intentions! Yes, one would like to pay ransom and be 
done with it all.” 

“That’s the feeling of a captive; and yet somehow I 
can’t think of you as ever having been anybody’s captive.” 

“You do display some wonderful insight sometimes. 
My dear, I begin to suspect that men are rather con- 
ceited about their powers. They think they dominate 
us. Even exceptional men will think that; men too great 
for mere vanity, men like Henry Allegre for instance, 
who by his consistent and serene detachment was certain- 
ly fit to dominate all sorts of people. Yet for the most 
part they can only do it because women choose more or 
less consciously to let them do so. . Henry Allegre, if any 


238 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


man, might have been certain of his own power; and yet, 
look: I was a chit of a girl, I was sitting with a book 
where I had no business to be, in his own garden, when 
he suddenly came upon me, an ignorant girl of seventeen, 
a most uninviting creature with a tousled head, in an 
old black frock and shabby boots. I could have run 
away. I was perfectly capable of it. But I stayed looking 
up at him and — in the end it was he who went away and 
it was I who stayed.” 

“Consciously?” I murmured. 

“Consciously? You may just as well ask my shadow 
that lay so still by me on the young grass in that morn- 
ing sunshine. I never knew before how still I could keep. 
It wasn’t the stillness of terror. I remained, knowing 
perfectly well that if I ran he was not the man to run 
after me. I remember perfectly his deep-toned, politely 
indifferent ‘Restez done.’ He was mistaken. Already 
then I hadn’t the slightest intention to move. And if 
you ask me again how far conscious all this was the 
nearest answer I can make you is this: that I remained 
on purpose, but I didn’t know for what purpose I re- 
mained. Really, that couldn’t be expected. . . . Why 

do you sigh like this? Would you have preferred me to 
be idiotically innocent or abominably wise? ” 

“These are not the questions that trouble me,” I said. 
“If I sighed it is because I am weary.” 

“And getting stiff, too, I should say, in this Pompeiian 
armchair. You had better get out of it and sit on this 
couch as you always used to do. That, at any rate, is not 
Pompeiian. You have been growing of late extremely 
formal, I don’t know why. If it is a poso then for good- 
ness sake drop it. Are you going to model yourself on 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 239 

Captain Blunt? You couldn’t, you know. You are too 
young.” 

“I don’t want to model myself on anybody,” I said. 
“And anyway Blunt is too romantic; and, moreover, he 
has been and is yet in love with you — a thing that re- 
quires some style, an attitude, something of which I am 
altogether incapable.” 

“You know it isn’t so stupid, this, what you have just 
said. Yes, there is something in this.” 

“I am not stupid,” I protested, without much heat. 

“Oh, yes, you are. You don’t know the world enough 
to judge You don’t know how wise men can be. Owls are 
nothing to them. ^Ly do you try to look like an owl? 
There are housands and thousands of them waiting for 
me outside the door: the staring, hissing beasts. You 
don’t know what a relief of mental ease and intimacy 
you have been to me in the frankness of gestures and 
speeches and thoughts, sane or insane, that we have been 
throwing at eaeh other. I have known nothing of this in 
my life but with you. There had always been some fear, 
some constraint, lurking in the background behind every- 
body, everybody — except you, my friend.” 

“An unmannerly, Arcadian state of affairs. I am glad 
you liked it. Perhaps it’s because you were intelligent 
enough to perceive that I was not in love with you in 
any sort of style.” 

“No, you were always your own self, unwise and reck- 
less and with something in it kindred to mine, if I may 
say so without offence.” 

“You may say anything without offence. But has it 
never occurred to your sagacity that I just, simply, loved 
you.” 


240 THE ARROW OP GOLD 

“Just — simply,” she repeated in a wistful tone. 

“You didn’t want to trouble your head about it, is 
that it? ” 

“My poor head. From your tone one might think 
you yearned to cut it off. No, my dear, I have made up 
my mind not to lose my head.” 

“You would be astonished to know how little I care 
for your mind.” 

“Would I? Come and sit on the couch all the same,” 
she said after a moment of hesitation. Then, as I did not 
move at once, she added with indifference: “You may sit 
as far away as you like, it’s big enough, goodness knows.” 

The light was ebbing slowly out of the rotunda and to 
my bodily eyes she was beginning to grow shadowy. I 
sat down on the couch and for a long time no word passed 
between us. We made no movement. We did not even 
turn towards each other. All I was conscious of was the 
softness of the seat which seemed somehow to cause a 
relaxation of my stern mood, I won’t say against my will 
but without any will on my part. Another thing I was 
conscious of, strangely enough, was the enormous brass 
bowl for cigarette ends. Quietly, with the least possible 
action. Dona Rita moved it to the other side of her mo- 
tionless person. Slowly, the fantastic women with but- 
terflies’ wings and the slender-limbed youths with the 
gorgeous pinions on their shoulders were vanishing into 
their blaek backgrounds with an effect of silent discretion, 
leaving us to ourselves. 

I felt suddenly extremely exhausted, absolutely over- 
come with fatigue since I had moved; as if to sit on that 
Pompeiian chair had been a task almost beyond human 
strength, a sort of labour that must end in collapse. I 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


241 


fought against it for a moment and then my resistance 
gave way. Not all at once but as if giving way to 
an irresistible pressure (for I was not conscious of any 
irresistible attraction) I found myself with my head rest- 
ing, with a weight I felt must be crushing, on Dona Rita’s 
shoulder which yet did not give way, did not flinch at all. 
A faint scent of violets filled the tragic emptiness of my 
head and it seemed impossible to me that I should not 
cry from sheer weakness. But I remained dry-eyed. I 
only felt myself slipping lower and lower and I caught 
her round the waist clinging to her not from any inten- 
tion but purely by instinct. All that time she hadn’t 
stirred. There was only the slight movement of her 
breathing that showed her to be alive; and with closed 
eyes I imagined her to be lost in thought, removed by 
an incredible meditation while I clung to her, to an 
immense distance from the earth. The distance must 
have been immense because the silence was so perfect, 
the feeling as if of eternal stillness. I had a distinct im- 
pression of being in contact with an infinity that had the 
slightest possible rise and fall, was pervaded by a warm, 
delicate scent of violets and through which came a hand 
from somewhere to rest lightly on my head. Presently 
my ear caught the faint and regular pulsation of her 
heart, firm and quick, infinitely touching in its persistent 
mystery, disclosing itself into my very ear — and my fe- 
licity became complete. 

It was a dreamlike state combined with a dreamlike 
sense of insecurity. Then in that warm and scented in- 
finity, or eternity, in which I rested lost in bliss but ready 
for any catastrophe, I heard the distant, hardly audible, 
and fit to strike terror into the heart, ringing of a bell. 


242 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


At this sound the greatness of spaces departed. I felt the 
world close about me; the world of darkened walls, of 
very deep grey dusk against the panes, and I asked in a 
pained voice: 

“Why did you ring, Rita?” 

There was a bell rope within reach of her hand. I had 
not felt her move, but she said very low: 

“I rang for the lights.” 

“You didn’t want the lights.” 

“It was time,” she whispered secretly. 

Somewhere within the house a door slammed. I got 
away from her feeling small and weak as if the best part 
of me had been torn away and irretrievably lost. Rose 
must have been somewhere near the door. 

“It’s abominable,” I murmured to the still, idol-like 
shadow on the couch. 

The answer was a hurried, nervous whisper: “I tell 
you it was time. I rang because I had no strength to 
push you away.” 

I suffered a moment of giddiness before the door 
opened, light streamed in, and Rose entered, preceding a 
man in a green baize apron whom I had never seen, carry- 
ing on an enormous tray three Argand lamps fitted into 
vases of Pompeiian form. Rose distributed them over 
the room. In the flood of soft light the winged youths 
and the butterfly women reappeared on the panels, 
affected, gorgeous, callously unconscious of anything hav- 
ing happened during their absence. Rose attended to the 
lamp on the nearest mantelpiece, then turned about and 
asked in a confident undertone. 

Monsieur dine?" 

I had lost myself with my elbows on my knees and my 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


243 


head in my hands, but I heard the words distinctly. I 
heard also the silence which ensued. I sat up and took 
the responsibility of the answer on myself. 

‘'Impossible. I am going to sea this evening.” 

This was perfectly true only I had totally forgotten it 
till then. For the last two days my being was no longer 
composed of memories but exclusively of sensations of 
the most absorbing, disturbing, exhausting nature. I 
was like a man who has been buffeted by the sea or by a 
mob till he loses all hold on the world in the misery of his 
helplessness. But now I was recovering. And naturally 
the first thing I remembered was the fact that I was 
going to sea. 

“You have heard. Rose,” Dona Rita said at last with 
some impatience. 

The girl waited a moment longer before she said: 

“Oh, yes! There is a man waiting for Monsieur in the 
hall. A seaman.” 

It could be no one but Dominic. It dawned upon me 
that since the evening of our return I had not been near 
him or the ship, which was something completely unusual, 
unheard of, and well calculated to startle Dominic. i 

“I have seen him before,” continued Rose, “and as he 
told me he has been pursuing Monsieur all the afternoon 
and didn’t like to go away without seeing Monsieur for a 
moment, I proposed to him to wait in the hall till Mon- 
sieur was at liberty.” 

I said: “Very well,” and with a sudden resumption of 
her extremely busy, not-a-moment-to-lose manner Rose 
departed from the room. I lingered in an imaginary 
world full of tender light, of unheard-of colours, with a 
mad riot of flowers and an inconceivable happiness under 


244 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


the sky arched above its yawning precipices, while a 
feeling of awe enveloped me like its own proper atmos- 
phere. But everything vanished at the sound of Dona 
Rita’s loud whisper full of boundless dismay, such as to 
make one’s hair stir on one’s head. 

“Mon Dieu! And what is going to happen now?” 

She got down from the couch and walked to a window. 
When the lights had been brought into the room all the 
panes had turned inky black; for the night had come and 
the garden was full of tall bushes and trees screening off 
the gas lamps of the main alley of the Prado. Whatever 
the question meant she was not likely to see an answer 
to it outside. But her whisper had offended me, had 
hurt something infinitely deep, infinitely subtle and in- 
finitely clear-eyed in my nature. I said after her from 
the couch on which I had remained, “Don’t lose your 
composure. You will always have some sort of bell at 
hand.” 

I saw her shrug her uncovered shoulders impatiently. 
Her forehead was against the very blackness of the 
panes; pulled upward from the beautiful, strong nape of 
her neck, the twisted mass of her tawny hair was held 
high upon her head by the arrow of gold. 

“You set up for being unforgiving,” she said without 
anger. 

I sprang to my feet while she turned about and came 
towards me bravely, with a wistful smile on her bold, 
adolescent face. 

“It seems to me,” she went on in a voice like a wave of 
love itself, “that one should try to understand before one 
sets up for being unforgiving. Forgiveness is a very fine 
word. It is a fine invocation.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


245 


There are other fine words in the language such as 
fascination, fidelity, also frivolity; and as for invocations 
there are plenty of them, too; for instance: alas, heaven 
help me.” 

We stood very close together, her narrow eyes were as 
. igmatic as ever, but that face, which, like some ideal 
cjnception of art, was incapable of anything like untruth 
and grimace, expressed by some mysterious means such 
a depth of infinite patience that I felt profoundly 
ashamed of myself. 

‘‘This thing is beyond words altogether,” I said. “Be- 
yond forgiveness, beyond forgetting, beyond anger or 
jealousy. . . . There is nothing between us two that 

could make us act together.” 

“Then we must fall back perhaps on something within 
us, that — you admit it? — we have in common.” 

“Don’t be childish,” I said. “You give one with a 
perpetual and intense freshness feelings and sensations 
that are as old as the world itself, and you imagine that 
your enchantment can be broken off anywhere, at any 
time! But it can’t be broken. And forgetfulness, like 
everything else, can only come from you. It’s an im- 
possible situation to stand up against.” 

She listened with slightly parted lips as if to catch 
some further resonances. 

“There is a sort of generous ardour about you,” she 
said, “which I don’t really understand. No, I don’t 
know it. Believe me, it is not of myself I am thinking. 
And you — ^you are going out to-night to make another 
landing.” 

“Yes, it is a fact that before many hours I will be sail- 
ing away from you to try my luck once more.” 


246 


THE ARROW OE GOLD 

“Your wonderful luck,” she breathed out. 

“Oh, yes, I am wonderfully lucky. Unless the luck 
really is yours — in having found somebody like me, who 
cares at the same time so much and so little for what you 
have at heart.” 

“What time will you be leaving the harbour?” she 
asked. 

“Some time between midnight and daybreak. Our 
men may be a little late in joining, but certainly we will 
be gone before the first streak of light.” 

“What freedom!” she murmured enviously. “It’s 
something I shall never know. . . . ” 

“Freedom!” I protested. “I am a slave to my word. 
There will be a string of carts and mules on a certain 
part of the coast, and a most ruffianly lot of men, men 
you understand, men with wives and children and sweet- 
hearts, who from the very moment they start on a trip 
risk a bullet in the head at any moment, but who have a 
perfect conviction that I will never fail them. That’s 
my freedom. I wonder what they would think if they 
knew of your existence.” 

“I don’t exist,” she said. 

“That’s easy to say. But I will go as if you didn’t ex- 
ist — yet only because you do exist. You exist in me. I 
don’t know where I end and you begin. You have got 
into my heart and into my veins and into my brain.” 

“Take this fancy out and trample it down in the 
dust,” she said in a tone of timid entreaty. 

“Heroically,” I suggested with the sarcasm of despair. 

“Well, yes, heroically,” she said; and there passed be- 
tween us dim smiles, I have no doubt of the most touch- 
ing imbecility on earth. We were standing by then 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


247 


in the middle of the room with its vivid colours on a 
black background, with its multitude of winged figures 
with pale limbs, with hair like halos or fiames, all 
strangely tense in their strained, decorative attitudes. 
Dona Rita made a step towards me, and as I attempted 
to seize her hand she fiung her arms round my neck. I 
felt their strength drawing me towards her and by a 
sort of blind and desperate effort I resisted. And all the 
time she was repeating with nervous insistence: 

‘‘But it is true that you will go. You will surely. Not 
because of those people but because of me. You will go 
away because you feel you must.’’ 

With every word urging me to get away, her clasp 
lightened, she hugged my head closer to her breast. I 
submitted, knowing well that I could free myself by one 
more effort which it was in my power to make. But be- 
fore I made it, in a sort of desperation, I pressed a long 
kiss into the hollow of her throat. And lo — there was 
no need for any effort. With a stifled cry of surprise her 
arms fell off me as if she had been shot. I must have 
been giddy, and perhaps we both were giddy, but the n^xt 
thing I knew there was a good foot of space between us 
in the peaceful glow of the ground glass globes, in the 
everlasting stillness of the winged figures. Something in 
the quality of her exclamation, something utterly unex- 
pected, something I had never heard before, and also the 
way she was looking at me with a sort of incredulous, con- 
centrated attention, disconcerted me exceedingly. I knew 
perfectly well what I had done and yet I felt that I didn’t 
understand what ha^^J happened. I became suddenly 
abashed and I muttered that I had better go and dismiss 
that poor Dominic. She made no answer, gave no sign. 


248 THE ARROW OF GOLD 

She stood there lost in a vision — or was it a sensation 
of the most absorbmg kind. I hurried out into the hall, 
shamefaced, as if I were making my escape while she 
wasn’t looking. And yet I left her looking fixedly at 
me, with a sort of stupefaction on her features — in her 
whole attitude — as though she had never even heard of 
such^a thing as a kiss in her life. 

A dim lamp (of Pompeiian form) hanging on a long 
chain left the hall practically dark. Dominic, advancing 
towards me from a distant corner, was but a little more 
opaque shadow than the others. He had expected me on 
board every moment till about three o’clock, but as I 
didn’t turn up and gave no sign of life in any other way 
he started on his hunt. He sought news of me from the 
gargons at the various cafes, from the cockers de fiacre in 
front of the Exchange, from the tobacconist lady at the 
counter of the fashionable D&hit de tahac, from the old 
man who sold papers outside the cercle, and from the flower- 
girl at the door of the fashionable restaurant where I 
had my table. That young woman, whose business name 
was Irma, had come on duty about mid-day. She said 
to Dominic: “I think I’ve seen all his friends this 
morning but I haven’t seen him for a week. What has 
become of him?” 

“That’s exactly what I want to know,” Dominic re- 
plied in a fury and then went back to the harbour on the 
chance that I might have called either on board or at 
Madame Leonore’s cafe. 

I expressed to him my surprise that he should fuss 
about me like an old hen over a chick. It wasn’t like 
him at all. And he said that '‘en efet” it was Madame 
Leonore who wouldn’t give him any peace. He hoped I 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


249 


wouldn’t mind, it was best to humour women in little 
things; and so he started oflF again, made straight for the 
street of the Consuls, was told there that I wasn’t at 
home, but the woman of the house looked so funny that he 
didn’t know what to make of it. Therefore, after some 
hesitation, he took the liberty to inquire at this house, too, 
and being told that I couldn’t be disturbed, had made up 
his mind not to go on board without actually setting his 
eyes on me and hearing from my own lips that nothing 
was changed as to sailing orders. 

"‘There is nothing changed, Dominic,” I said. 

“No change of any sort?” he insisted, looking very 
sombre and speaking gloomily from under his black mous- 
taches in the dim glow of the alabaster lamp hanging 
above his head. He peered at me in an extraordinary 
manner as if he wanted to make sure that I had all my 
limbs about me. I asked him to call for my bag at the 
other house, on his way to the harbour, and he de- 
parted reassured, not, however, without remarking ironi- 
cally that ever since she saw that American cavalier 
Madame Leonore was not easy in her mind about me. 

As I stood alone in the hall, without a sound of any 
sort. Rose appeared before me. 

“Monsieur will dine after all,” she whispered calmly. 

“My good girl, I am going to sea to-night.” 

“What am I going to do with Madame?” she mur- 
mured to herself. “She will insist on returning to Paris.” 

“Oh, have you heard of it?” 

“I never get more than two hours’ notice,” she said. 
“But I know how it will be,” her voice lost its calmness. 
“I can look after Madame up to a certain point but I 
cannot be altogether responsible. There is a dangerous 


250 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


person who is everlastingly trying to see Madame alone. 
I have managed to keep him off several times but there 
is a beastly old journalist who is encouraging him in his 
attempts, and I daren’t even speak to Madame about 
it.” 

“What sort of person do you mean?” 

“Why, a man,” she said scornfully. 

I snatched up my coat and hat. 

“Aren’t there dozens of them?” 

“Oh! But this one is dangerous. Madame must have 
given him a hold on her in some way. I ought not to 
talk like this about Madame and I wouldn’t to anybody 
but Monsieur. I am always on the watch, but what is a 
poor girl to do? . . . Isn’t Monsieur going back to 

Madame?” 

“No, I am not going back. Not this time.” A mist 
seemed to fall before my eyes. I could hardly see the 
girl standing by the closed door of the Pompeiian room 
with extended hand, as if turned to stone. But my voice 
was firm enough. “Not this time,” I repeated, and be- 
came aware of the great noise of the wind amongst the 
trees, with the lashing of a rain squall against the door. 
“Perhaps some other time,” I added. 

I heard her say twice to herself: “il/on Dieu! Mon 
Dieu!’' and then a dismayed: “What can Monsieur ex- 
pect me to do?” But I had to appear insensible to her 
distress and that not altogether because, in fact, I had no 
option but to go away. I remember also a distinct wilful- 
ness in my attitude and something half-contemptuous in 
my words as I laid my hand on the knob of the front door 

“You will tell Madame that I am gone. It will pleas 
her. Tell her that I am gone — heroically.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


251 


Rose had come up close to me. She met my words by 
a despairing outward movement of her hands as though 
she were giving everything up. 

‘‘I see it clearly now that Madame has no friends,” she 
declared with such a force of restrained bitterness that it 
nearly made me pause. But the very obscurity of actu- 
ating motives drove me on and I stepped out through 
the doorway muttering: ^'Everything is as Madame 
wishes it.” 

She shot at me a swift: "You should resist,” of an ex- 
traordinary intensity, but I strode on down the path. 
Then Rose’s schooled temper gave way at last and I 
heard her angry voice screaming after me furiously 
through the wind and rain: "No! Madame has no 
friends. Not one!” 


PART FIVE 


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T hat night I didn't get on board till just before 
midnight and Dominic could not conceal his relief 
at having me safely there. Why he should have 
been so uneasy it was impossible to say but at the time 
I had a sort of impression that my inner destruction (it 
was nothing less) had affected my appearance, that my 
doom was as it were written on my face. I was a mere 
receptacle for dust and ashes, a living testimony to the 
vanity of all things. My very thoughts were like a 
ghostly rustle of dead leaves. But we had an extremely 
successful trip, and for most of the time Dominic dis- 
played an unwonted jocularity of a dry and biting kind 
with which, he maintained, he had been infected by no 
other person than myself. As, with all his force of char- 
acter, he was very responsive to the moods of those he 
liked I have no doubt he spoke the truth. But I know 
nothing about it. The observer, more or less alert, whom 
each of us carries in his own consciousness, failed me al- 
together, had turned away his face in sheer horror, or else 
had fainted from the strain. And thus I had to live alone, 
unobserved even by myself. 

But the trip had been successful. We re-entered the 
harbour very quietly as usual and when our craft had been 
moored unostentatiously amongst the plebeian stone- 
carriers, Dominic, whose grim joviality had subsided in 
the last twenty-four hours of our homeward run, aban- 


256 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


doned me to myself as though indeed I had been a doomed 
man. He only stuck his head for a moment into our little 
cuddy where I was changing my clothes and being told in 
answer to his question that I had no special orders to give 
went ashore without waiting for me. 

Generally we used to step on the quay together and I 
never failed to enter for a moment Madame Leonore’s cafe. 
But this time when I got on the quay Dominic was no- 
where to be seen. What was it? Abandonment — dis- 
cretion — or had he quarrelled with his L4onore before 
leaving on the trip? 

My way led me past the caf6 and through the glass 
panes I saw that he was already there. On the other side 
of the little marble table Madame Leonore, leaning with 
mature grace on her elbow, was listening to him absorbed. 
Then I passed on and — what would you have! — I 
ended by making my way into the street of the Consuls. 
I had nowhere else to go. There were my things in the 
apartment on the first floor. I couldn’t bear the thought 
of meeting anybody I knew. 

The feeble gas flame in the hall was still there, on duty, 
as though it had never been turned off since I last crossed 
the hall at half-past eleven in the evening to go to the 
harbour. The small flame had watched me letting my- 
self out; and now, exactly of the same size, the poor little 
tongue of light (there was something wrong with that 
burner) watched me letting myself in, as indeed it had 
done many times before. Generally the impression was 
that of entering an untenanted house, but this time before 
I could reach the foot of the stairs Therese glided out of 
the passage leading into the studio. After the usual 
exclamations she assured me that everything was ready 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


257 


for me upstairs, had been for days, and offered to get me 
something to eat at once. I accepted and said I would be 
down in the studio in half an hour. I found her there by 
the side of the laid table ready for conversation. She 
began by telling me — the dear, poor young Monsieur — 
in a sort of plaintive chant, that there were no letters for 
me, no letters of any kind, no letters from anybody. 
Glances of absolutely terrifying tenderness mingled with 
flashes of cunning swept over me from head to foot while 
I tried to eat. 

“Are you giving me Captain Blunt’s wine to drink?” 
I asked, noting the straw-coloured liquid in my glass. 

She screwed up her mouth as if she had a twinge of 
toothache and assured me that the wine belonged to the 
house. I would have to pay her for it. As far as personal 
feelings go. Blunt, who addressed her always with polite 
seriousness, was not a favourite with her. The “charm- 
ing, brave Monsieur” was now fighting for the King and 
religion against the impious Liberals. He went away 
the very morning after I had left and, oh ! she remembered, 
he had asked her before going away whether I was still in 
the house. Wanted probably to say good-bye to me, shake 
my hand, the dear, polite Monsieur. 

I let her run on in dread expectation of what she would 
say next but she stuck to the subject of Blunt for some 
time longer. He had written to her once about some of 
his things which he wanted her to send to Paris to his 
mother’s address; but she was going to do nothing of the 
kind. She announced this with a pious smile; and in 
answer to my questions I discovered that it was a strat- 
agem to make Captain Blunt return to the house. 

“You will get yourself into trouble with the police, 


258 THE ARROW OF GOLD 

Mademoiselle Therese, if you go on like that,” I said. 
But she was as obstinate as a mule and assured me with 
the utmost confidence that many people would be ready 
to defend a poor honest girl. There was something behind 
this attitude which I could not fathom. Suddenly she 
fetched a deep sigh. 

“Our Rita, too, will end by coming to her sister.” 

The name for which I had been waiting deprived me of 
speech for the moment. The poor mad sinner had rushed 
off to some of her wickednesses in Paris. Did I know? 
No? How could she tell whether I did know or not? 
Well! I had hardly left the house, so to speak, when Rita 
was down with her maid behaving as if the house did 
really still belong to her. . 

“What time was it?” I managed to ask. And with the 
words my life itsdf was being forced out through my lips. 
But Therese, not noticing anything strange about me, 
said it was something like half -past seven in the morning. 
The “poor sinner” was all in black as if she were going to 
church (excq)t for her expression, which was enough to 
shock any honest person), and after ordering her with 
frightful menaces not to let anybody know she was in the 
house she rushed upstairs and locked herself up in my 
bedroom, while “that French creature” (whom she seemed 
to love more than her own sister) went into my salon 
and hid herself behind the window curtain. 

I had recovered sufficiently to ask in a quite natural 
voice whether Dona Rita and Captain Blunt had seen 
each other. Apparently they had not seen each other. 
The polite captain had looked so stern while packing up 
his kit that Therese dared not speak to him at all. And 
he was in a hurry, too. He had to see his dear mother off 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 259 

to Paris before his own departure. Very stern. But he 
shook her hand with a very nice bow. 

Therese elevated her right hand for me to see. It was 
broad and short with blunt fingers, as usual. The pres- 
sure of Captain Blunt’s handshake had not altered its 
unlovely shape. 

“What was the good of telling him that our Rita was 
here.P” went on Therese. “I would have been ashamed 
of her coming here and behaving as if the house belonged 
to her! I had already said some prayers at his intention 
at the half-past six mass, the brave gentleman. That 
maid of my sister Rita was upstairs watching him drive 
away with her evil eyes, but I made a sign of the cross 
after the fiacre, and then I went upstairs and banged at 
your door, my dear kind young Monsieur, and shouted to 
Rita that she had no right to lock herself in any of my 
locataires rooms. At last she opened it — and what do 
you think? All her hair was loose over her shoulders. 
I suppose it all came down when she flung her hat on your 
bed. I noticed when she arrived that her hair wasn’t done 
properly. She used your brushes to do it up again in 
front of your glass.” 

“Wait a moment,” I said, and jumped up, upsetting my 
wine to run upstairs as fast as I could. I lighted the gas, 
all the three jets in the middle of the room, the jet by the 
bedside and two others flanking the dressing-table. I 
had been struck by the wild hope of finding a trace of 
Rita’s passage, a sign or something. I pulled out ail the 
drawers violently, thinking that perhaps she had hidden 
there a scrap of paper, a note. It was perfectly mad. Of 
course there was no chance of that. Therese would have 
seen to it. I picked up one after another all the various 


260 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


objects on the dressing-table. On laying my hands on 
the brushes I had a profound emotion, and with misty 
eyes I examined them meticulously with the new hope of 
finding one of Rita’s tawny hairs entangled amongst the 
bristles by a miraculous chance. But Therese would have 
done away with that chance, too. There was nothing to 
be seen, though I held them up to the light with a beating 
heart. It was written that not even that trace of her 
passage on the earth should remain with me; not to help 
but, as it were, to soothe the memory. Then I lighted a 
cigarette and came downstairs slowly. My unhappiness 
became dulled, as the grief of those who mourn for the 
dead gets dulled in the overwhelming sensation that 
everything is over, that a part of themselves is lost beyond 
recall, taking with it all the savour of life. 

I discovered Therese still on the very same spot of the 
floor, her hands folded over each other and facing my 
empty chair before which the spilled wine had soaked a 
large portion of the table-cloth. She hadn’t moved at 
all. She hadn’t even picked up the overturned glass. 
But directly I appeared she began to speak in an ingrati- 
ating voice. 

“If you have missed anything of yours upstairs, my 
dear young Monsieur, you mustn’t say it’s me. You 
don’t know what our Rita is.” 

“I wish to goodness,” I said, “that she had taken some- 
thing.” 

And again I became inordinately agitated as though it 
were my absolute fate to be everlastingly dying and re- 
viving to the tormenting fact of her existence. Perhaps 
she had taken something? Anything. Some small ob- 
ject. I thought suddenly of a Rhenish-stone match-box. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


261 


Perhaps it was that. I didn’t remember having seen 
it when upstairs. I wanted to make sure at once. At 
once. But I commanded myself to sit still. 

‘‘And she so wealthy,” Therese went on. “Even you 
with your dear generous little heart can do nothing for 
our Rita. No man can do anything for her — except 
perhaps one, but she is so evilly disposed towards him 
that she wouldn’t even see him, if in the goodness of his 
forgiving heart he were to ofifer his hand to her. It’s her 
bad conscience that frightens her. He loves her more 
than his life, the dear, charitable man.” 

“You mean some rascal in Paris that I believe perse- 
cutes Dona Rita. Listen, Mademoiselle Therese, if you 
know where he hangs out you had better let him have 
word to be careful. I believe he, too, is mixed up in the 
Carlist intrigue. Don’t you know that your sister can 
get him shut up any day or get him expelled by the police?” 

Therese sighed deeply and put on a look of pained 
virtue. 

“Oh, the hardness of her heart. She tried to be tender 
with me. She is awful. I said to her, ‘Rita, have you 
sold your soul to the Devil?’ and she shouted like a fiend: 
‘ For happiness ! Ha, ha, ha !’ She threw herself backwards 
on that couch in your room and laughed and laughed and 
laughed as if I had been tickling her, and she drummed 
on the floor with the heels of her shoes. She is possessed. 
Oh, my dear innocent young Monsieur, you have never 
seen anything like that. That wicked girl who serves 
her rushed in with a tiny glass bottle and put it to 
her nose; but I had a mind to run out and fetch the 
priest from the church where I go to early mass. Such 
a nice, stout, severe man. But that false, cheating crea- 


262 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


ture (I am sure she is robbing our Rita from morning to 
night), she talked to our Rita very low and quieted her 
down, I am sure I don’t know what she said. She must 
be leagued with the devil. And then she asked me if I 
would go down and make a cup of chocolate for her 
Madame. Madame — that’s our Rita. Madame! It 
seems they were going off directly to Paris and her 
Madame had had nothing to eat since the morning of the 
day before. Fancy me being ordered to make chocolate 
for our Rita! However, the poor thing looked so ex- 
hausted and white-faced that I went. Ah ! the devil can 
give you an awful shake up if he likes.” 

Therese fetched another deep sigh and raising her eyes 
looked at me with great attention. I preserved an inscru- 
table expression, for I wanted to hear all she had to tell me 
of Rita. I watched her with the greatest anxiety com- 
posing her face into a cheerful expression. 

“So Dona Rita is gone to Paris?” I asked negligently. 

“Yes, my dear Monsieur. I believe she went straight 
to the railway station from here. When she first got up 
from the couch she could hardly stand. But before, 
while she was drinking the chocolate which I made for 
her, I tried to get her to sign a paper giving over the house 
to me, but she only closed her eyes and begged me to try 
and be a good sister and leave her alone for half an hour. 
And she lying there looking as if she wouldn’t live a day. 
But she always hated me.” 

I said bitterly, “You needn’t have worried her like this. 
If she had not lived for another day you would have had 
this house and everything else besides; a bigger bit than 
even your wolfish throat can swallow. Mademoiselle 
Therese.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


263 


I then said a few more things indicative of my disgust 
with her rapacity, but they were quite inadequate, as I 
wasn’t able to find words strong enough to express my 
real mind. But it didn’t matter really because I don’t 
think Therese heard me at all. She seemed lost in rapt 
amazement. 

“What do you say, my dear Monsieur? What! All for 
me without any sort of paper? ” 

She appeared distracted by my curt: “Yes.” Therese 
believed in my truthfulness. She believed me implicitly, 
except when I was telling her the truth about herself, 
mincing no words, when she used to stand smilingly 
bashful as if I were overwhelming her with compliments. 
I expected her to continue the horrible tale but apparently 
she had found something to think about which checked 
the flow. She fetched another sigh and muttered: 

“Then the law can be just, if it does not require any 
paper. After all, I am her sister.” 

“It’s very difficult to believe that — ^^at sight,” I said 
roughly. 

“Ah, but that I could prove. There are papers for 
that.” 

After this declaration she began to clear the table, pre- 
serving a thoughtful silence. 

I was not very surprised at the news of Dona Rita’s 
departure for Paris. It was not necessary to ask myself 
why she had gone. I didn’t even ask myself whether she 
had left the leased Villa on the Prado forever. Later, 
talking again with Therese, I learned that her sister had 
given it up for the use of the Carlist cause and that some 
sort of unojBficial Consul, a Carlist agent of some sort, 
either_was going to live there or had already taken pos- 


264 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


session. This, Rita herself had told her before her depar- 
ture on that agitated morning spent in the house — in my 
rooms. A close investigation demonstrated to me that 
there was nothing missing from them. Even the wretched 
match-box which I really hoped was gone turned up in a 
drawer after I had, delightedly, given it up. It was a 
great blow. She might have taken that at least! She 
knew I used to carry it about with me constantly while 
ashore. She might have taken it! Apparently she 
meant that there should be no bond left even of that kind; 
and yet it was a long time before I gave up visiting and 
revisiting all the corners of all possible receptacles for 
something that she might have left behind on purpose. 
It was like the mania of those disordered minds who spend 
their days hunting for a treasure. I hoped for a forgotten 
hairpin, for some tiny piece of ribbon. Sometimes at 
night I reflected that such hopes were altogether insensate; 
but I remember once getting up at two in the morning 
to search for a little cardboard box in the bathroom, into 
which, I remembered, I had not looked before. Of course 
it was empty; and, anyway, Rita could not possibly have 
known of its existence. I got back to bed shivering vio- 
lently, though the night was warm, and with a distinct 
impression that this thing would end by making me mad. 
It was no longer a question of “this sort of thing” killing 
me. The moral atmosphere of this torture was different. 
It would make me mad. And at that thought great shud- 
ders ran down my prone body, because, once, I had visited 
a famous lunatic asylum where they had shown me a poor 
wretch who was mad, apparently, because he thought he 
had been abominably fooled by a woman. They told me 
that his grievance was quite imaginary. He was a young 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


265 


man with a thin fair beard, huddled up on the edge of his 
bed, hugging himself forlornly; and his incessant and 
lamentable wailing filled the long bare corridor, striking 
a chill into one’s heart long before one came to the door of 
his cell. 

And there was no one from whom I could hear, to whom 
I could utter, with whom I could evoke the image of Rita. 
Of course I could utter that word of four letters to Therese; 
but Therese for some reason took it into her head to avoid 
all topics connected with her sister. I felt as if I could 
pull out great handfuls of her hair hidden modestly under 
the black handkerchief of which the ends were sometimes 
tied under her chin. But, really, I could not have given 
her any intelligible excuse for that outrage. Moreover, 
she was very busy from the very top to the very bottom 
of the house, which she persisted in running alone because 
she couldn’t make up her mind to part with a few francs 
every month to a servant. It seemed to me that I was 
no longer such a favourite with her as I used to be. That, 
strange to say, was exasperating, too. It was as if some 
idea, some fruitful notion had killed in her all the softer 
and more humane emotions. She went about with brooms 
and dusters wearing an air of sanctimonious thought- 
fulness. 

The man who to a certain extent took my place in 
Therese’s favour was the old father of the dancing girls 
inhabiting the ground floor. In a tall hat and a well-to- 
do dark blue overcoat he allowed himself to be button- 
holed in the hall by Therese who would talk to him in- 
terminably with downcast eyes. He smiled gravely down 
at her, and meanwhile tried to edge towards the front door. 
I imagine he didn’t put a great value on Therese’s favour. 


266 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


Our stay in harbour was prolonged this time and I kept 
indoors like an invalid. One evening I asked that old 
man to come in and drink and smoke with me in the studio. 
He made no difficulties to accept, brought his wooden 
pipe with him, and was very entertaining in a pleasant 
voice. One couldn’t tell whether he was an uncommon 
person or simply a ruffian, but in any case with his white 
beard he looked quite venerable. Naturally he couldn’t 
give me much of his company as he had to look closely 
after his girls and their admirers; not that the girls were 
unduly frivolous, but of course being very young they had 
no experience. They were friendly creatures with plea- 
sant, merry voices and he was very much devoted to them. 
He was a muscular man with a high colour and silvery 
locks curling round his bald pate and over his ears, like a 
barocco apostle. I had an idea that he had had a lurid 
past and had seen some fighting in his youth. The ad- 
mirers of the two girls stood in great awe of him, from 
instinet no doubt, because his behaviour to them was 
friendly and even somewhat obsequious, yet always with 
a certain truculent glint in his eye that made them pause 
in everything but their generosity — which was en- 
couraged. I sometimes wondered whether those two 
careless, merry, hard-working creatures understood the 
secret moral beauty of the situation. 

My real company was the dummy in the studio and I 
can’t say it was exactly satisfying. After taking posses- 
sion of the studio I had raised it tenderly, dusted its 
mangled limbs and insensible, hard-wood bosom, and 
then had propped it up in a corner where it seemed to take 
on, of itself, a shy attitude. I knew its history. It was 
not an ordinary dummy. One day, talking with Dofia 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


267 


Rita about her sister, I had told her that I thought 
Therese used to knoek it down on purpose with a broom, 
and Dona Rita had laughed very much. This, she had 
said, was an instance of dislike from mere instinct. That 
dummy had been made to measure years before. It 
had to wear for days and days the Imperial Byzantine 
robes in which Dona Rita sat only once or twice herself; 
but of course the folds and bends of the stuff had to be 
preserved as in the first sketch. Dona Rita described 
amusingly how she had to stand in the middle of her room 
while Rose walked around her with a tape measure noting 
the figures down on a small piece of paper which was then 
sent to the maker, who presently returned it with an 
angry letter stating that those proportions were alto- 
gether impossible in any woman. Apparently Rose had 
muddled them all up; and it was a long time before the 
figure was finished and sent to the Pavilion in a long 
basket to take on itself the robes and the hieratic pose of 
the Empress. Later, it wore with the same patience the 
marvellous hat of the “Girl in the Hat.” But Dona 
Rita couldn’t understand how the poor thing ever found 
its way to Marseilles minus its turnip head. Probably 
it came down with the robes and a quantity of precious 
brocades which she herself had sent down from Paris. 
The knowledge of its origin, the contempt of Captain 
Blunt’s references to it, with Therese’s shocked dislike 
of the dummy, invested that summary reproduction with 
a sort of charm, gave me a faint and miserable illusion 
of the original, less artificial than a photograph, less pre- 
cise, too . . . But it can’t be explained. I felt 

positively friendly to it as if it had been Rita’s trusted 
personal attendant. I even went so far as to discover 


268 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


that it had a sort of grace of its own. But I never went 
so far as to address set speeches to it where it lurked shyly 
in its corner, or drag it out from there for contemplation. 
I left it in peace. I wasn’t mad. I was only convinced 
that I soon would be. 


n 


N otwithstanding my misanthropy i had to 

see a few people on account of all these Royalist 
affairs which I couldn’t very well drop, and in 
truth did not wish to drop. They were my excuse for 
remaining in Europe, which somehow I had not the 
strength of mind to leave for the West Indies, or else- 
where. On the other hand, my adventurous pursuit kept 
me in contact with the sea where I found occupation, 
protection, consolation, the mental relief of grappling 
with concrete problems, the sanity one acquires from 
close contact with simple mankind, a little self-confidence 
born from the dealings with the elemental powers of 
nature. I couldn’t give all that up. And besides all this 
was related to Dona Rita. I had, as it were, received it 
all from her own hand, from that hand the clasp of which 
was as frank as a man’s and yet conveyed a unique sen- 
sation. The very memory of it would go through me 
like a wave of heat. It was over that hand that we first 
got into the habit of quarrelling, with the irritability of 
sufferers from some obscure pain and yet half unconscious 
of their disease. Rita’s own spirit hovered over the 
troubled waters of Legitimity. But as to the sound of 
the four magic letters of her name I was not very likely 
to hear it fall sweetly on my ear. For instance, the dis- 
tinguished personality in the world of finance with whom 
I had to confer several times, alluded to the irresistible 
seduction of the power which reigned over my heart and 
m 


270 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


my mind; which had a mysterious and unforgettable face, 
the brilliance of sunshine together with the unfathomable 
splendour of the night as — Madame de Lastaola. That’s 
how that steel-grey man called the greatest mystery of 
the universe. When uttering that assumed name he 
would make for himself a guardedly solemn and reserved 
face as though he were afraid lest I should presume to 
smile, lest he himself should venture to smile, and the 
sacred formality of our relations should be outraged be- 
yond mending. 

He would refer in a studiously grave tone to Madame 
de Lastaola’s wishes, plans, activities, instructions, move- 
ments; or picking up a letter from the usual litter of 
paper found on such men’s desks, glance at it to refresh 
his memory; and, while the very sight of the handwriting 
would make my lips go dry, would ask me in a bloodless 
voice whether perchance I had “a direct communication 
from — er — Paris lately.” And there would be other 
maddening circumstances connected with those visits. 
He would treat me as a serious person having a clear view 
of certain eventualities, while at the very moment my 
vision could see nothing but streaming across the wall at 
his back, abundant and misty, unearthly and adorable, a 
mass of tawny hair that seemed to have hot sparks tan- 
gled in it. Another nuisance was the atmosphere of 
Royalism, of Legitimacy, that pervaded the room, thin 
as air, intangible, as though no Legitimist of flesh and 
blood had ever existed to the man’s mind except perhaps 
myself. He, of course, was just simply a banker, a very 
distinguished, a very influential, and a very impeccable 
banker. He persisted also in deferring to my judgment 
and sense with an over-emphasis called out by his per- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


271 


petual surprise at my youth. Though he had seen me 
many times (I even knew his wife) he could never get 
over my immature age. He himself was born about 
fifty years old, all complete, with his iron-grey whiskers 
and his bilious eyes, which he had the habit of frequent- 
ly closing during a conversation. On one occasion he 
said to me: *^By the by, the Marquis of Villarel is here 
for a time. He inquired after you the last time he called 
on me. May I let him know that you are in town.^” 

I didn^t say anything to that. The Marquis of Villa- 
rel was the Don Rafael of Rita’s own story. What had I 
to do with Spanish grandees.^ And for that matter what 
had she, the woman of all time, to do with all the villain- 
ous or splendid disguises human dust takes upon itself? 
All this was in the past and I was acutely aware that for 
me there was no present, no future, nothing but a hollow 
pain, a vain passion of such magnitude that being locked 
up within my breast it gave me an illusion of lonely 
greatness with my miserable head uplifted amongst the 
stars. But when I made up my mind (which I did quick- 
ly, to be done with it) to call on the banker’s wife, almost 
the first thing she said to me was that the Marquis de 
Villarel was ‘"amongst us.” She said it joyously. If in 
her husband’s room at the bank legitimism was a mere 
unpopulated principle, in her salon Legitimacy was noth- 
ing but persons. “7Z m’a caus^ beaucoup de vous/^ she 
said as if there had been a joke in it of which I ought to 
be proud. I slunk away from her. I couldn’t believe 
that the grandee had talked to her about me. I had 
never felt myself part of the great Royalist enterprise. 
I confess that I was so indifferent to everything, so pro- 
foundly demoralized, that having once got into that 


272 THE ARROW OF GOLD. 

drawing-room I hadn’t the strength to get away; though 
I could see perfectly well my volatile hostess going from 
one to another of her acquaintances in order to tell them 
with a little gesture, “Look! Over there — in that cor- 
ner. That’s the notorious Monsieur George.” At last 
she herself drove me out by coming to sit by me viva- 
ciously and going into ecstasies over “ce cher Monsieur 
Mills” and that magnificent Lord X; and ultimately, 
with a perfectly odious snap in the eyes and drop in the 
voice, dragging in the name of Madame de Lastaola and 
asking me whether I was really so much in the confi- 
dence of that astonishing person. “Vous devez hien re- 
gretter son dipart pour Paris,'' she cooed, looking with 
affected bashfulness at her fan. . . . How I got out 

of the room I really don’t know. There was also a stair- 
case. I did not fall down it head first — that much I am 
certain of; and I also remember that I wandered for a 
long time about the seashore and went home very late, 
by the way of the Prado, giving in passing a fearful glance 
at the Villa. It showed not a gleam of light through the 
thin foliage of its trees. 

I spent the next day with Dominic on board the little 
craft watching the shipwrights at work on her deck. 
From the way they went about their business those men 
must have been perfectly sane; and I felt greatly re- 
freshed by my company during the day. Dominic, too, 
devoted himself to his business; but his taciturnity was 
sardonic. Then I dropped in at the cafe and Madame 
Leonore’s loud “Eh, Signorino, here you are at last!” 
pleased me by its resonant friendliness. But I found the 
sparkle of her black eyes as she sat down for a moment 
opposite me while I was having my drink rather difficult 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


273 


to bear. That man and that woman seemed to know 
something. What did they know? At parting she pressed 
my hand significantly. What did she mean? But I 
didn’t feel offended by these manifestations. The souls 
within these people’s breasts were not volatile in the 
manner of slightly scented and infiated bladders. Neither 
had they the impervious skins which seem the rule in the 
fine world that wants only to get on. Somehow they had 
sensed that there was something wrong; and whatever 
impression they might have formed for themselves I had 
the certitude that it would not be for them a matter for 
grins at my expense. 

That day on returning home I found Therese looking 
out for me, a very unusual occurrence of late. She hand- 
ed me a card bearing the name of the Marquis de Villarel. 

‘'How did you come by this?” I asked. She turned on 
at once the tap of her volubility and I was not surprised 
to learn that the grandee had not done such an extraor- 
dinary thing as to call on me in person. A young gentle- 
man had brought it. Such a nice young gentleman, she 
interjected with her piously ghoulish expression. He was 
not very tall. He had a very smooth complexion (that 
woman was incorrigible) and a nice, tiny black mous- 
tache. Therese was sure that he must have been an 
officer en las filas legitimas. With that notion in her 
head she had asked him about the welfare of that other 
model of charm and elegance, Captain Blunt. To her ex- 
treme surprise the charming young gentleman with beau- 
tiful eyes had apparently never heard of Blunt. But he 
seemed very much interested in his surroundings, looked 
all round the hall, noted the costly wood of the door 
panels, paid some attention to the silver statuette holding 


274 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


up the defective gas burner at the foot of the stairs, 
and, finally, asked whether this was in very truth the 
house of the most excellent Senora Dona Rita de Las- 
taola. This question staggered Therese, but with great 
presence of mind she answered the young gentleman that 
she didn’t know what excellence there was about it, but 
that the house was her property, having been given to 
her by her own sister. At this the young gentleman 
looked both puzzled and angry, turned on his heel, and 
got back into his fiacre. Why should people be angry 
with a poor girl who had never done a single reprehensi- 
ble thing in her whole life? 

“I suppose our Rita does tell people awful lies about 
her poor sister.” She sighed deeply (she had several 
kinds of sighs and this was the hopeless kind) and added 
reflectively, “Sin on sin, wickedness on wickedness! And 
the longer she lives the worse it will be. It would be bet- 
ter for our Rita to be dead.” 

I told “Mademoiselle Therese” that it was really im- 
possible to tell whether she was more stupid or atrocious; 
but I wasn’t really very much shocked. These outbursts 
did not signify anything in Therese. One got used to 
them. They were merely the expression of her rapacity 
and her righteousness; so that our conversation ended 
by my asking her whether she had any dinner ready for 
me that evening. 

“What’s the good of getting you anything to eat, my 
dear young Monsieur,” she quizzed me tenderly. “You 
just only peck like a little bird. Much better let me save 
the money for you.” It will show the super-terrestrial 
nature of my misery when I say that I was quite sur- 
prised at Therese’s view of my appetite. Perhaps she 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


275 


was right. I certainly did not know. I stared hard at 
her and in the end she admitted that the dinner was in 
fact ready that very moment. 

The new young gentleman within Therese’s horizon 
didn’t surprise me very much. Villarel would travel 
with some sort of suite, a couple of secretaries at least. 
I had heard enough of Carlist headquarters to know that 
the man had been (very likely was still) Captain General 
of the Royal Bodyguard and was a person of great polit- 
ical (and domestic) influence at Court. The card was, 
under its social form, a mere command to present myself 
before the grandee. No Royalist devoted by conviction, 
as I must have appeared to him, could have mistaken the 
meaning. I put the card in my pocket and after dining 
or not dining — I really don’t remember — spent the 
evening smoking in the studio, pursuing thoughts of ten- 
derness and grief, visions exalting and cruel. From time 
to time I looked at the dummy. I even got up once from 
the couch on which I had been writhing like a worm and 
walked towards it as if to touch it, but refrained, not 
from sudden shame but from sheer despair. By and by 
Therese drifted in. It was then late and, 1 imagine, she 
was on her way to bed. She looked the picture of cheer- 
ful, rustic innocence and started propounding to me a 
conundrum which began with the words: 

“If our Rita were to die before long . . .” 

She didn’t get any further because I had jumped up 
and frightened her by shouting: “Is she ill? What has 
happened? Have you had a letter?” 

She had had a letter. I didn’t ask her to show it to 
me though I daresay she would have done so. I had 
an idea that there was no meaning in anything, at least 


276 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


no meaning that mattered. But the interruption had 
made Therese apparently forget her sinister conundrum. 
She observed me with her shrewd, unintelligent eyes for 
a bit and then with the fatuous remark about the Law 
being just she left me to the horrors of the studio. I 
believe I went to sleep there from sheer exhaustion. 
Some time during the night I woke up chilled to the 
bone and in the dark. These were horrors and no mis- 
take. I dragged myself upstairs to bed past the inde- 
fatigable statuette holding up the ever-miserable light. 
The black-and-white hall was like an ice house. 

The main consideration which induced me to call on 
the Marquis of Villarel was the fact that after all I was a 
discovery of Dona Rita’s, her own recruit. My fidelity 
and steadfastness had been guaranteed by her and no 
one else. I couldn’t bear the idea of her being criticized 
by every empty-headed chatterer belonging to the Cause. 
And as, apart from that, nothing mattered much, why, 
then — I would get this over. 

But it appeared that I had not reflected sufficiently on 
all the bearings of that step. First of all the sight of the 
Villa looking shabbily cheerful in the sunshine (but not 
containing her any longer) was so perturbing that I very 
nearly went away from the gate. Then when I got in 
after much hesitation — being admitted by the man in 
the green baize apron who recognized me — the thought 
of entering that room, out of which she was gone as com- 
pletely as if she had been dead, gave me such an emotion 
that I had to steady myself against the table till the 
faintness was past. Yet I was irritated as at a treason 
when the man in the baize apron instead of letting me 
into the Pompeiian dining-room crossed the hall to an- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


277 


other door not at all in the Pompeiian style (more Louis 
XV rather — that Villa was like a Salade Russe of styles) 
and introduced me into a big, light room full of very 
modern furniture. The portrait en pied of an officer in 
a sky-blue uniform hung on the end wall. The officer 
had a small head, a black beard cut square, a robust 
body, and leaned with gauntleted hands on the simple 
hilt of a straight sword. That striking picture dominated 
a massive mahogany desk, and, in front of this desk, a 
very roomy, tall-backed armchair of dark green velvet. 
I thought I had been announced into an empty room till 
glancing along the extremely loud carpet I detected a 
pair of feet under the armchair. 

I advanced towards it and discovered a little man, 
who had made no sound or movement till I came into 
his view, sunk deep in the green velvet. He altered his 
position slowly and rested his hollow, black, quietly burn- 
ing eyes on my face in prolonged scrutiny. I detected 
something comminatory in his yellow, emaciated coun- 
tenance, but I believe now he was simply startled by my 
youth. I bowed profoundly. He extended a meagre lit- 
tle hand. 

“Take a chair, Don Jorge.” 

He was very small, frail, and thin, but his voice was 
not languid, though he spoke hardly above his breath. 
Such was the envelope and the voice of the fanatical soul 
belonging to the Grand-master of Ceremonies and Cap- 
tain General of the Bodyguard at the Headquarters of 
the Legitimist Court, now detached on a special mission. 
He was all fidelity, inflexibility, and sombre conviction, 
but like some great saints he had very little body to keep 
all these merits in. 


278 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“You are very young,” he remarked, to begin with. 
“The matters on which I desired to converse with you 
are very grave.” 

“I was under the impression that your Excellency 
wished to see me at once. But if your Excellency prefers 
it I will return in, say, seven years’ time when I may 
perhaps be old enough to talk about grave matters.” 

He didn’t stir hand or foot and not even the quiver of 
an eyelid proved that he had heard my shockingly unbe- 
coming retort. 

“You have been recommended to us by a noble and 
loyal lady, in whom His Majesty — whom God preserve 

— reposes an entire confidence. God will reward her as 
she deserves and you, too, Senor, according to the dispo- 
sition you bring to this great work which has the bless- 
ing (here he crossed himself) of our Holy Mother the 
Church.” 

“I suppose your Excellency understands that in all 
this I am not looking for reward of any kind.” 

At this he made a faint, almost ethereal grimace. 

“I was speaking of the spiritual blessing which re- 
wards the service of religion and will be of benefit to 
your soul,” he explained with a slight touch of acidity. 
“The other is perfectly understood and your fidelity is 
taken for granted. His Majesty — whom God preserve 

— has been already pleased to signify his satisfaction 
with your services to the most noble and loyal Dona Rita 
by a letter in his own hand.” 

Perhaps he expected me to acknowledge this announce- 
ment in some way, speech, or bow, or something, because 
before my immobility he made a slight movement in his 
chair which smacked of impatience. “I am afraid, Sefior, 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


£ 79 ' 

that you are affected by the spirit of scoffing and irrever- 
ence which pervades this unhappy country of France in 
which both you and I are strangers, I believe. Are you a 
young man of that sort?” 

“I am a very good gun-runner, your Excellency,” I 
answered quietly. 

He bowed his head, very grave. “We are aware. But 
I was looking for the motives which ought to have their 
pure source in religion.” 

“I must confess frankly that I have not reflected on 
my motives,” I said. “It is enough for me to know that 
they are not dishonourable and that anybody can see 
they are not the motives of an adventurer seeking some 
sordid advantage.” 

He had listened patiently and when he saw that there 
was nothing more to come he ended the discussion. 

“Sefior, we should reflect upon our motives. It is salu- 
tary for our conscience and is recommended (he crossed 
himself) by our Holy Mother the Church. I have here 
certain letters from Paris on which I would consult your 
young sagacity which is accredited to us by the most 
loyal Dona Rita.” 

The sound of that name on his lips was simply odious. 
I was convinced that this man of forms and ceremonies 
and fanatical royalism was perfectly heartless. Perhaps 
he reflected on his motives; but it seemed to me that his 
conscience could be nothing else but a monstrous thing 
which very few actions could disturb appreciably. Yet 
for the credit of Dona Rita I did not withhold from him 
my young sagacity. What he thought of it I don’t know. 
The matters we discussed were not of course of high pol- 
icy, though from the point of view of the war in the south 


280 . 


THE AKROW OF GOLD 


they were important enough. We agreed on certain 
things to be done, and finally, always out of regard for 
Dona Rita’s credit, I put myself generally at his disposi- 
tion or of any Carlist agent he would appoint in his 
place; for I did not suppose that he would remain very 
long in Marseilles. He got out of the chair laboriously, 
like a sick child might have done. The audience was 
over but he noticed my eyes wandering to the portrait 
and he said in his measured, breathed-out tones: 

“I owe the pleasure of having this admirable work 
here to the gracious attention of Madame de Lastaola, 
who, knowing my attachment to the royal person of my 
Master, has sent it down from Paris to greet me in this 
house which has been given up for my occupation also 
through her generosity to the Royal Cause. Unfortu- 
nately she, too, is touched by the infection of this irreverent 
and unfaithful age. But she is young yet. She is 
young.” 

These last words were pronounced /n a strange tone of 
menace as though he were supernaturally aware of some 
suspended disasters. With his burning eyes he was the 
image of an Inquisitor with an unconquerable soul in that 
frail body. But suddenly he dropped his eyelids and the 
conversation finished as characteristically as it had be- 
gun: with a slow, dismissing inclination of the head and 
an “Adios, Senor — may God guard you from sin.” 


ni 


I MUST say that for the next three months I threw 
myself into my unlawful trade with a sort of desper- 
ation, dogged and hopeless, like a fairly decent fel- 
low who takes deliberately to drink. The business was 
getting dangerous. The bands in the South were not 
very well organized, worked with no very definite plan, 
and now were beginning to be pretty closely hunted. 
The arrangements for the transport of supplies were 
going to pieces; our friends ashore were getting scared; 
and it was no joke to find after a day of skilful dodging 
that there was no one at the landing place and have to 
go out again with our compromising cargo, to slink and 
lurk about the coast for another week or so, unable to 
trust anybody and looking at every vessel we met with 
suspicion. Once we were ambushed by a lot of ‘‘rascally 
Carabineers,” as Dominic called them, who hid them- 
selves amongst the rocks after disposing a train of mules 
well in view on the seashore. Luckily, on evidence 
which I could never understand, Dominic detected some- 
thing suspicious. Perhaps it was by virtue of some sixth 
sense that men born for unlawful occupations may be 
gifted with. “There is a smell of treachery about this,” 
he remarked suddenly, turning at his oar. (He and I 
were pulling alone in a little boat to reconnoitre.) I 
couldn’t detect any smell and I regard to this day our 
escape on that occasion as, properly speaking, miracu- 
lous. Surely some supernatural power must have struck 
281 


282 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


upwards the barrels of the Carabineers’ rifles, for they 
missed us by yards. And as the Carabineers have the 
reputation of shooting straight, Dominic, after swearing 
most horribly, asciibed our escape to the particular guar- 
dian angel that looks after crazy young gentlemen. 
Dominic believed in angels in a conventional way, but 
laid no claim to having one of his own. Soon afterwards, 
while sailing quietly at night, we found ourselves sudden- 
ly near a small coasting vessel, also without lights, which 
all at once treated us to a volley of rifle fire. Dominic’s 
mighty and inspired yell: “A plat ventre!” and also an 
unexpected roll to windward saved all our lives. No- 
body got a scratch. We were past in a moment and in a 
breeze then blowing we had the heels of anything likely 
to give us chase. But an hour afterwards, as we stood 
side by side peering into the darkness, Dominic was 
heard to mutter through his teeth: “Le ndtier se gate” 
I, too, had the feeling that the trade, if not altogether 
spoiled, had seen its best days. But I did not care. In 
fact, for my purpose it was rather better, a more potent 
influence; like the stronger intoxication of a raw spirit. 
A volley in the dark after all was not such a bad thing. 
Only a moment before we had received it, there, in that 
calm night of the sea full of freshness and soft whispers, 
I had been looking at an enchanting turn of a head in a 
faint light of its own, the tawny hair with snared red 
sparks brushed up from the nape of a white neck and 
held up on high by an arrow of gold feathered with bril- 
liants and with ruby gleams all along its shaft. That 
jewelled ornament, which I remember often telling Rita 
was of a very Philistinish conception (it was in some way 
connected with a tortoiseshell comb) occupied an undue 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


283 


place in my memory, tried to come into some sort of sig- 
nificance even in my sleep. Often I dreamed of her with 
white limbs shimmering in the gloom like a nymph 
haunting a riot of foliage and raising a perfect round arm 
to take an arrow of gold out of her hair to throw it at me 
by hand, like a dart. It came on, a whizzing trail of 
light, but I always woke up before it struck. Always. 
Invariably. It never had a chance. A volley of small 
arms was much more likely to do the business some day 
— or night. 

At last came the day when everything slipped out of 
my grasp. The little vessel, broken and gone like the 
only toy of a lonely child, the sea itself, which had swal- 
lowed it, throwing me on shore after a shipwreck that 
instead of a fair fight left in me the memory of a suicide. 
It took away all that there was in me of independent life 
but just failed to take me out of the world, which looked 
then indeed like Another World fit for no one else but 
unrepentant sinners. Even Dominic failed me, his 
moral entity destroyed by what to him was a most tragic 
ending of our common enterprise. The lurid swiftness of 
it all was like a stunning thunder-clap — and, one even- 
ing, I found myself weary, heartsore, my brain still 
dazed and with awe in my heart entering Marseilles by 
way of the railway station, after many adventures, one 
more disagreeable than another, involving privations, 
great exertions, a lot of diflBculties with all sorts of peo- 
ple who looked upon me evidently more as a discredit- 
able vagabond deserving the attentions of gendarmes 
than a respectable (if crazy) young gentleman attended 
by a guardian angel of his own. I must confess that I 


284 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


slunk out of the railway station shunning its many lights 
as if, invariably, failure made an outcast of a man. I 
hadn’t any money in my pocket. I hadn’t even the bun- 
dle and the stick of a destitute wayfarer. I was un- 
shaven and unwashed, and my heart was faint within 
me. My attire was such that I daren’t approach the 
rank of fiacres, where indeed I could perceive only two 
pairs of lamps, of which one suddenly drove away while 
I looked. The other I gave up to the fortunate of this 
earth. I didn’t believe in my power of persuasion. I 
had no powers. I slunk on and on, shivering with cold, 
through the uproarious streets. Bedlam was loose in 
them. It was the time of Carnival. 

Small objects of no value have the secret of sticking to 
a man in an astonishing way. I had nearly lost my lib- 
erty and even my life, I had lost my ship, a money-belt 
full of gold, I had lost my companions, had parted from 
my friend; my occupation, my only link with life, my 
touch with the sea, my cap and jacket were gone — but 
a small penknife and a latchkey had never parted com- 
pany with me. With the latchkey I opened the door of 
refuge. The hall wore its deaf and dumb air, its black- 
and-white stillness. 

The sickly gas-jet still struggled bravely with adver- 
sity at the end of the raised silver arm of the statuette 
which had kept to a hair’s breadth its graceful pose on 
the toes of its left foot; and the staircase lost itself in the 
shadows above. Therese was parsimonious with the 
lights. To see all this was surprising. It seemed to me 
that all the things I had known ought to have come 
down with a crash at the moment of the final catastrophe 
on the Spanish coast. And there was Therese herself de- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


285 


scending the stairs, frightened but plucky. Perhaps she 
thought that she would be murdered this time for cer- 
tain. She had a strange, unemotional conviction that the 
house was particularly convenient for a crime. One 
could never get to the bottom of her wild notions which 
she held with the stolidity of a peasant allied to the out- 
ward serenity of a nun. She quaked all over as she 
came down to her doom, but when she recognized me she 
got such a shock that she sat down suddenly on the low- 
est step. She did not expect me for another week at 
least, and, besides, she explained, the state I was in made 
her blood take “one turn.” 

Indeed my plight seemed either to have called out or 
else repressed her true nature. But who had ever fath- 
omed her nature! There was none of her treacly volu- 
bility. There were none of her “dear young gentlemans” 
and “poor little hearts” and references to sin. In breath- 
less silence she ran about the house getting my room 
ready, lighting fires and gas-jets and even hauling at me 
to help me up the stairs. Yes, she did lay hands on me 
for that charitable purpose. They trembled. Her pale 
eyes hardly left my face. “What brought you here like 
this?” she whispered once. 

“If I were to tell you. Mademoiselle Therese, you 
would see there the hand of God.” 

She dropped the extra pillow she was carrying and 
then nearly fell over it. “Oh, dear heart,” she mur- 
mured and ran off to the kitchen. 

I sank into bed as into a cloud and Therese reap- 
peared very misty and offering me something in a cup. I 
believe it was hot milk, and after I drank it she took the 
cup and stood looking at me fixedly. I managed to say 


286 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


with difficulty: “Go away,” whereupon she vanished as 
if by magic before the words were fairly out of my mouth. 
Immediately afterwards the sunlight forced through the 
slats of the jalousies its diffused glow, and Therese was 
there again as if by magic, saying in a distant voice: 
“It’s midday” . . . 'Youth will have its rights. I 

had slept like a stone for seventeen hours. 

I suppose an honourable bankrupt would know such 
an awakening: the sense of catastrophe, the shrinking 
from the necessity of beginning life again, the faint feel- 
ing that there are misfortunes which must be paid for by 
a hanging. In the course of the morning Therese in- 
formed me that the apartment usually occupied by 
Mr. Blunt was vacant and added mysteriously that she 
intended to keep it vacant for a time, because she had 
been instructed to do so. I couldn’t imagine why Blunt 
should wish to return to Marseilles. She told me also 
that the house was empty except for myself and the two 
dancing girls with their father. Those people had been 
away for some time as the girls had engagements in some 
Italian summer theatres, but apparently they had se- 
cured a re-engagement for the winter and were now 
back. I let Therese talk because it kept my imagination 
from going to work on subjects which, I had made up my 
mind, were no concern of mine. But I went out early to 
perform an unpleasant task. It was only proper that I 
should let the Carlist agent ensconced in the Prado Villa 
know of the sudden ending of my activities. It would 
be grave enough news for him, and I did not like 
to be its bearer for reasons which were mainly personal. 
I resembled Dominic in so far that I, too, disliked 
failure. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


287 


The Marquis of Villarel had of course gone long before. 
The man who was there was another type of Carlist al- 
together, and his temperament was that of a trader. He 
was the chief purveyor of the Legitimist armies, an hon- 
est broker of stores, and enjoyed a great reputation for 
cleverness. His important task kept him, of course, in 
France, but his young wife, whose beauty and devotion 
to her King were well known, represented him worthily 
at Headquarters, where his own appearances were ex- 
tremely rare. The dissimilar but united loyalties of 
those two people had been rewarded by the title of baron 
and the ribbon of some order or other. The gossip of the 
Legitimist circles appreciated those favours with smiling 
indulgence. He was the man who had been so distressed 
and frightened by Dona Rita’s first visit to Tolosa. He 
had an extreme regard for his wife. And in that sphere 
of clashing arms and unceasing intrigue nobody would 
have smiled then at his agitation if the man himself 
hadn’t been somewhat grotesque. 

He must have been startled when I sent in my name, 
for he didn’t of course expect to see me yet — nobody 
expected me. He advanced soft-footed down the room. 
With his jutting nose, flat-topped skull and sable gar- 
ments he recalled an obese raven, and when he heard of 
the disaster he manifested his astonishment and concern 
in a most plebeian manner by a low and expressive whis- 
tle. I, of course, could not share his consternation. My 
feelings in that connection were of a different order; but 
I was annoyed at his unintelligent stare. 

“I suppose,” I said, “you will take it on yourself to 
advise Dona Rita, who is greatly interested in this af- 
fair.” 


288 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“Yes, but I was given to understand that Madame de 
Lastaola was to leave Paris either yesterday or this 
morning.” 

It was my turn to stare dumbly before I could manage 
to ask: “For Tolosa?” in a very knowing tone. 

Whether it was the droop of his head, play of light, or 
some other subtle cause, his nose seemed to have grown 
perceptibly longer. 

“That, Senor, is the place where the news has got to 
be conveyed without undue delay,” he said in an agitated 
wheeze. “I could, of course, telegraph to our agent in 
Bayonne who would find a messenger. But I don’t like, 
I don’t like! The Alphonsists have agents, too, who hang 
about the telegraph offices. It’s no use letting the enemy 
get that news.” 

He was obviously very confused, unhappy, and trying 
to think of two different things at once. 

“Sit down, Don George, sit down.” He absolutely 
forced a cigar on me. “I am extremely distressed. That 
— I mean Dona Rita is undoubtedly on her way to To- 
losa. This is very frightful.” 

I must say, however, that there was in the man some 
sense of duty. He mastered his private fears. After 
some cogitation he murmured: “There is another way 
of getting the news to Headquarters. Suppose you write 
me a formal letter just stating the facts, the unfortunate 
facts, which I will be able to forward. There is an agent 
of ours, a fellow I have been employing for purchasing sup- 
plies, a perfectly honest man. He is coming here from the 
north by the ten o’clock train with some papers for me of a 
confidential nature. I was rather embarrassed about it. It 
wouldn’t do for him to get into any sort of trouble. He 


289 


,^THE ARROW OF GOLD 

is not very intelligent. I wonder, Don George, whether 
you would consent to meet him at the station and take 
care of him generally till to-morrow. I don’t like the 
idea of him going about alone. Then, to-morrow night, 
we would send him on to Tolosa by the west coast route, 
with the news; and then he can also call on Dona Rita 
who will no doubt be already there. . . . ” He be- 

came again distracted all in a moment and actually went 
so far as to wring his fat hands. ‘‘Oh, yes, she will be 
there!” he exclaimed in most pathetic accents. 

I was not in the humour to smile at anything, and he 
must have been satisfied with the gravity with which I 
beheld his extraordinary antics. My mind was very far 
away. I thought: Why not? Why shouldn’t I also 
write a letter to Dona Rita, telling her that now nothing 
stood in the way of my leaving Europe, because, really; 
the enterprise couldn’t be begun again; that things that 
come to an end can never be begun again. The idea — 
never again — had complete possession of my mind. I 
could think of nothing else. Yes, I would write. The 
worthy Commissary General of the Carlist forces was 
under the impression that I was looking at him; but 
what I had in my eye was a jumble of butterfiy women 
and winged youths and the soft sheen of Argand lamps 
gleaming on an arrow of gold in the hair of a head that 
seemed to evade my outstretched hand. 

“Oh, yes,” I said, “I have nothing to do and even 
nothing to think of just now. I will meet your man as 
he gets off the train at ten o’clock to-night. What’s he 
like?” 

“Oh, he has a black moustache and whiskers, and his 
chin is shaved,” said the newly-fledged baron cordially. 


290 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“A very honest fellow. I always found him very useful. 
His name is Jose Ortega.” 

He was perfectly self-possessed now, and walking soft- 
footed accompanied me to the door of the room. He 
shook hands with a melancholy smile. “This is a very 
frightful situation. My poor wife will be quite distract- 
ed. She is such a patriot. Many thanks, Don George. 
You relieve me greatly. The fellow is rather stupid and 
rather bad-tempered. Queer creature, but very honest! 
Oh, very honest!” 


IV 


I T WAS the last evening of Carnival. The same 
masks, the same yells, the same mad rushes, the same 
bedlam of disguised humanity blowing about the 
streets in the great gusts of mistral that seemed to make 
them dance like dead leaves on an earth where all joy is 
watched by death. 

It was exactly twelve months since that other carnival 
evening when I had felt a little weary and a little lonely 
but at peace with all mankind. It must have been — to 
a day or two. But on this evening it wasn’t merely lone- 
liness that I felt. I felt bereaved with a sense of a com- 
plete and universal loss in which there was perhaps more 
resentment than mourning; as if the world had not been 
taken away from me by an august decree but filched 
from my innocence by an underhand fate at the very 
moment when it had disclosed to my passion its warm 
and generous beauty. This consciousness of universal 
loss had this advantage that it induced something resem- 
bling a state of philosophic indifference. I walked up to 
the railway station caring as little for the cold blasts of 
wind as though I had been going to the scaffold. The 
delay of the train did not irritate me in the least. I had 
finally made up my mind to write a letter to Dona Rita; 
and this ‘‘honest fellow” for whom I was w^aiting would 
take it to her. He would have no difficulty in Tolosa in 
finding Madame de Lastaola. The General Headquar- 
ters, w^hich was also a Court, would be buzzing wdth com- 


292 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


ments on her presence. Most likely that “honest fellow” 
was already known to Dona Rita. For all I knew he 
might have been her discovery just as I was. Probably 
I, too, was regarded as an “honest fellow” enough; but 
stupid — since it was clear that my luck was not inex- 
haustible. I hoped that while carrying my letter the 
man would not let himself be caught by some Alphonsist 
guerilla who would, of course, shoot .him. But why 
should he? I, for instance, had escaped with my life 
from a much more dangerous enterprise than merely pass- 
ing through the frontier line in charge of some trust- 
worthy guide. I pictured the fellow to myself trudging 
over the stony slopes and scrambling down wild ravines 
with my letter to Dona Rita in his pocket. It would be 
such a letter of farewell as no lover had ever written, no 
woman in the world had ever read, since the beginning of 
love on earth. It would be worthy of the woman. No 
experience, no memories, no dead traditions of passion or 
language would inspire it. She herself would be its sole 
inspiration. She would see her own image in it as in a 
mirror; and perhaps then she would understand what it 
was I was saying farewell to on the very threshold of my 
life. A breath of vanity passed through my brain. A 
letter as moving as her mere existence was moving would 
be something unique. I regretted I was not a poet. 

I woke up to a great noise of feet, a sudden influx of 
people through the doors of the platform. I made out 
my man’s whiskers at once — not that they were enor- 
mous, but because I had been warned beforehand of their 
existence by the excellent Commissary General. At first 
I saw nothing of him but his whiskers: they were black 
and cut somewhat in the shape of a shark’s fin and so 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


293 


very fine that the least breath of air animated them into 
a sort of playful restlessness. The man’s shoulders were 
hunched up and when he had made his way clear of the 
throng of passengers I perceived him as an unhappy and 
shivery being. Obviously he didn’t expect to be met, be- 
cause when I murmured an enquiring, ‘‘Senor Ortega?” 
into his ear he swerved away from me and nearly dropped 
a little handbag he was carrying. His complexion 
was uniformly pale, his mouth was red, but not engaging. 
His social status was not very definite. He was wearing 
a dark blue overcoat of no particular cut, his aspect had 
no relief; yet those restless side- whiskers flanking his red 
mouth and the suspicious expression of his black eyes 
made him noticeable. This I regretted the more because 
I caught sight of two skulking fellows, looking very much 
like policemen in plain clothes, watching us from a cor- 
ner of the great hall. I hurried my man into a fiacre. 
He had been travelling from early morning on cross-coun- 
try lines and after we got on terms a little confessed to 
being very hungry and cold. His red lips trembled and I 
noted an underhand, cynical curiosity when he had occa- 
sion to raise his eyes to my face. I was in some doubt 
how to dispose of him but as we rolled on at a jog trot I 
came to the conclusion that the best thing to do would 
be to organize for him a shake-down in the studio. Ob- 
scure lodging houses are precisely the places most looked 
after by the police, and even the best hotels are bound to 
keep a register of arrivals. I was very anxious that noth- 
ing should stop his projected mission of courier to head- 
quarters. As we passed various street corners where the 
mistral blast struck at us fiercely I could feel him shiver- 
ing by my side. However, Therese would have lighted 


294 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


the iron stove in the studio before retiring for the night, 
and, anyway, I would have to turn her out to make up 
a bed on the couch. Service of the King! I must say 
that she was amiable and didn’t seem to mind anything 
one asked her to do. Thus while the fellow slumbered 
on the divan I would sit upstairs in my room setting 
down on paper those great words of passion and sorrow 
that seethed in my brain and even must have forced 
themselves in murmurs on to my lips, because the man 
by my side suddenly asked me: “What did you say?” 
- — “ Nothing,” I answered, very much surprised. In the 
shifting light of the street lamps he looked the picture of 
bodily misery with his chattering teeth and his whiskers 
blown back flat over his ears. But somehow he didn’t 
arouse my compassion. He was swearing to himself, in 
French and Spanish, and I tried to soothe him by the 
assurance that we had not much farther to go. “I am 
starving,” he remarked acidly, and I felt a little com- 
punction. Clearly, the first thing to do was to feed him. 
We were then entering the Cannebiere and as I didn’t 
care to show myself with him in the fashionable restau- 
rant where a new face (and such a face, too) would be re- 
marked, I pulled up the fiacre at the door of the Maison 
Doree. That was more of a place of general resort where, 
in the multitude of casual patrons, he would pass unno- 
ticed. 

For this last night of carnival the big house had deco- 
rated all its balconies with rows of coloured paper lan- 
terns right up to the roof. I led the way to the grand 
salon, for as to private rooms they had been all retained 
days before. There was a great crowd of people in cos- 
tume, but by a piece of good luck we managed to secure 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


295 


a little table in a corner. The revellers, intent on their 
pleasure, paid no attention to us. Senor Ortega trod on 
my heels and after sitting down opposite me threw an 
ill-natured glance at the festive scene. It might have 
been about half-past ten, then. 

Two glasses of wine he drank one after the other did 
not improve his temper. He only ceased to shiver. After 
he had eaten something it must have occurred to him 
that he had no reason to bear me a grudge and he tried 
to assume a civil and even friendly manner. His mouth, 
however, betrayed an abiding bitterness. I mean when 
he smiled. In repose it was a very expressionless mouth, 
only it was too red to be altogether ordinary. The whole 
of him was like that: the whiskers too black, the hair 
too shiny, the forehead too white, the eyes too mobile; 
and he lent you his attention with an air of eagerness 
which made you uncomfortable. He seemed to expect 
you to give yourself away by some unconsidered word 
that he would snap up with delight. It was that pecu- 
liarity that somehow put me on my guard. I had no 
idea who I was facing across the table and as a matter of 
fact I did not care. All my impressions were blurred; 
and even the promptings of my instinct were the haziest 
thing imaginable. Now and then I had acute hallucina- 
tions of a woman with an arrow of gold in her hair. This 
caused alternate moments of exaltation and depression 
from which I tried to take refuge in conversation; but 
Senor Ortega was not stimulating. He was preoccupied 
with personal matters. When suddenly he asked me 
whether I knew why he had been called away from his 
work (he had been buying supplies from peasants some- 
where in Central France), I answered that I didn’t know 


296 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


what the reason was originally, but I had an idea that 
the present intention was to make of him a courier, bear- 
ing certain messages from Baron H. to the Quartel Real 
in Tolosa. 

He glared at me like a basilisk. “And why have I 
been met like this?” he enquired with an air of being 
prepared to hear a lie. 

I explained that it was the Baron’s wish, as a matter 
of prudence and to avoid any possible trouble which 
might arise from enquiries by the police. 

He took it badly. “What nonsense.” He was — he 
said — an employ^ (for several years) of Hernandez 
Brothers in Paris, an importing firm, and he was travel- 
ling on their business — as he could prove. He dived 
into his side pocket and produced a handful of folded 
papers of all sorts which he plunged back again instantly. 

And even then I didn’t know whom I had there, oppo- 
site me, busy now devouring a slice of p^te de foie gras. 
Not in the least. It never entered my head. How could 
it? The Rita that haunted me had no history; she 
was but the principle of life charged with fatality. Her 
form was only a mirage of desire decoying one step by step 
into despair. 

Senor Ortega gulped down some more wine and sug- 
gested I should tell him who I was. “It’s only right I 
should know,” he added. 

This could not be gainsaid; and to a man connected 
with the Carlist organization the shortest way was to in- 
troduce myself as that “Monsieur George” of whom he 
had probably heard. 

He leaned far over the table, till his very breast-bone 
was over the edge, as though his eyes had been stilettos 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


297 


and he wanted to drive them home into my brain. It 
was only much later that I understood how near death I 
had been at that moment. But the knives on the table- 
cloth were the usual restaurant knives with rounded ends 
and about as deadly as pieces of hoop-iron. Perhaps in 
the very gust of his fury he remembered what a French 
restaurant knife is like and something sane within him 
made him give up the sudden project of cutting my heart 
out where I sat. For it could have been nothing but a 
sudden impulse. His settled purpose was quite other. It 
was not my heart that he was after. His fingers indeed 
were groping amongst the knife handles by the side of 
his plate but what captivated my attention for a moment 
were his red lips which were formed into an odd, sly, in- 
sinuating smile. Heard! To be sure he had heard! The 
chief of the great arms smuggling organization! 

“Oh!” I said, “that’s giving me too much impor- 
tance.” The person responsible and whom I looked upon 
as chief of all the business was, as he might have heard, 
too, a certain noble and loyal lady. 

“I am as noble as she is,” he snapped peevishly, and I 
put him down at once as a very offensive beast. “And 
as to being loyal, what is that? It is being truthful! It 
is being faithful! I know all about her.” 

I managed to preserve an air of perfect unconcern. He 
wasn’t a fellow to whom one could talk of Dona Rita. 
“You are a Basque,” I said. 

He admitted rather contemptuously that he was a 
Basque and even then the truth did not dawn upon me. 
I suppose that with the hidden egoism of a lover I was 
thinking of myself, of myself alone in relation to Dona 
Rita, not of Dona Rita herself. He, too, obviously. He 


298 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


said: “I am an educated man, but I know her people, 
all peasants. There is a sister, an uncle, a priest, a peas- 
ant, too, and perfectly unenlightened. One can’t expect 
much from a priest (I am a free-thinker of course), but he 
is really too bad, more like a brute beast. As to all hei 
people, mostly dead now, they never were of any ac- 
count. There was a little land, but they were always 
working on other people’s farms, a barefooted gang, a 
starved lot. I ought to know because we are distant re- 
lations. Twentieth cousins or something of the sort. 
Yes, I am related to that most loyal lady. And what is 
she, after all, but a Parisian woman with innumerable 
lovers, as I have been told.” 

“I don’t think your information is very correct,” I 
said, affecting to yawn slightly. “This is mere gossip of 
the gutter and I am surprised at you, who really know 
nothing about it ” 

But the disgusting animal had fallen into a brown 
study. The hair of his very whiskers was perfectly still. 
I had now given up all idea of the letter to Rita. Sud- 
denly he spoke again: 

“Women are the origin of all evil. One should never 
trust them. They have no honour. No honour!” he 
repeated, striking his breast with his closed fist on which 
the knuckles stood out very white. “I left my village 
many years ago and of course I am perfectly satisfied 
with my position and I don’t know why I should trouble 
my head about this loyal lady. I suppose that’s the way 
women get on in the world.” 

I felt convinced that he was no proper person to be a 
messenger to headquarters. He struck me as altogether 
untrustworthy and perhaps not quite sane. This was 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


299 


confirmed by him saying suddenly with no visible con- 
nection and as if it had been forced from him by some 
agonizing process: “I was a boy once,” and then stop- 
ping dead short with a smile. He had a smile that fright- 
ened one by its association of malice and anguish. 

“Will you have anything more to eat?” I asked. 

He declined dully. He had had enough. But he 
drained the last of a bottle into his glass and accepted a 
cigar which I offered him. While he was lighting it I 
had a sort of confused impression that he wasn’t such a 
stranger to me as I had assumed he was; and yet, on the 
other hand, I was perfectly certain I had never seen him 
before. Next moment I felt that I could have knocked 
him down if he hadn’t looked so amazingly unhappy, 
while he came out with the astounding question: “Senor, 
have you ever been a lover in your young days?” 

“What do you mean?” I asked. “How old do you 
think I am?” , 

“That’s true,” he said, gazing at me in a way in which 
the damned gaze out of their cauldrons of boiling pitch 
at some soul walking scot free in the place of torment. 
“It’s true, you don’t seem to have anything on your 
mind.” He assumed an air of ease, throwing an arm 
over the back of his chair and blowing the smoke through 
the gash of his twisted red mouth. “Tell me,” he said, 
“between men, you know, has this wonderful celebrity — 
what does she call herseff? How long has she been your 
mistress?” 

1 reflected rapidly that if I knocked him over, chair 
and all, by a sudden blow from the shoulder it would 
bring about infinite complications beginning with a visit 
to tlie Commissaire de Police on night-duty, and end- 


300 


THE AKROW OF GOLD 


ing in God knows what scandal and disclosures of 
political kind; because there was no telling what, or how 
much, this outrageous brute might choose to say and how 
many people he might not involve in a most undesirable 
publicity. He was smoking his cigar with a poignantly 
mocking air and not even looking at me. One can’t hit 
like that a man who isn’t even looking at one; and then, 
just as I was looking at him swinging his leg with a caus- 
tic smile and stony eyes, I felt sorry for the creature. It 
was only his body that was there in that chair. It was 
manifest to me that his soul vas absent in some hell of 
its own. At that moment I attained the knowledge of 
who it was I had before me. This was the man of whom 
both Dona Rita and Rose were so much afraid. It re- 
mained then for me to look after him for the night and 
then arrange with Baron H. that he should be sent away 
the very next day — and anywhere but to Tolosa. Yes, 
evidently, I mustn’t lose sight of him. I proposed in the 
calmest tone that we should go on where he could get his 
much-needed rest. He rose with alacrity, picked up his 
little hand-bag, and, walking out before me, no doubt 
looked a very ordinary person to all eyes but mine. It 
was then past eleven, not much, because we had not been 
in that restaurant quite an hour, but the routine of the 
town’s night-life being upset during the Carnival the 
usual row of fiacres outside the Maison Doree was not 
there; in fact, there were very few carriages about. Per- 
haps the coachmen had assumed Pierrot costumes and 
were rushing about the streets on foot yelling with the 
rest of the population. “We will have to walk,” I said 
after^a while. — “Oh, yes, let us walk,” assented Senor 
Ortega, “or I will be frozen here.” It was like a plaint 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 301 

of unutterable wretchedness. I had a fancy that all his 
natural heat had abandoned his limbs and gone to his 
brain. It was otherwise with me; my head was cool but 
I didn’t find the night really so very cold. We stepped 
out briskly side by side. My lucid thinking was, as it 
were, enveloped by the wide shouting of the consecrated 
Carnival gaiety. I have heard many noises since, but 
nothing that gave me such an intimate impression of the 
savage instincts hidden in the breast of mankind; these 
yells of festivity suggested agonizing fear, rage of mur- 
der, ferocity of lust, and the irremediable joylessness of 
human condition: yet they were emitted by people who 
were convinced that they were amusing themselves su- 
premely, traditionally, with the sanction of ages, with the 
approval of their conscience — and no mistake about it 
whatever! Our appearance, the soberness of our gait 
made us conspicuous. Once or twice, by common in- 
spiration, masks rushed forward and forming a circle 
danced round us uttering discordant shouts of derision; 
for we were an outrage to the peculiar proprieties of the 
hour, and besides we were obviously lonely and defence- 
less. On those occasions there was nothing for it but to 
stand still till the flurry was over. My companion, how- 
ever, would stamp his feet with rage, and I must admit 
that I myself regretted not having provided for our wear- 
ing a couple of false noses, which would have been enough 
to placate the just resentment of those people. We 
might have also joined in the dance, but for some reason 
or other^it didn’t occur to us; and I heard once a high- 
pitched clear woman’s voice stigmatizing us for a “species 
of swelled heads ’’^(espece d’enflSs).^ We proceeded sedately, 
my companion muttered with rage, _and was able to re- 


302 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


sume my thinking. It was based on the deep persuasion 
that the man at my side was insane with quite another 
than Carnivalesque lunacy which comes on at one stated 
time of the year. He was fundamentally mad, though 
not perhaps completely; which of course made him all 
the greater, I won’t say danger but, nuisance. 

I remember once a young doctor expounding the the- 
ory that most catastrophes in family circles, surprising 
episodes in public affairs and disasters in private life, 
had their origin in the fact that the world was full of half- 
mad people. He asserted that they were the real major- 
ity. When asked whether he considered himself as be- 
longing to the majority, he said frankly that he didn’t 
think so; unless the folly of voicing this view in a com- 
pany, so utterly unable to appreciate all its horror, could 
be regarded as the first symptom of his own fate. We 
shouted down him and his theory, but there is no doubt 
that it had thrown a chill on the gaiety of our gathering. 

We had now entered a quieter quarter of the town and 
Senor Ortega had ceased his muttering. For myself I 
had not the slightest doubt of my own sanity. It was 
proved to me by the way I could apply my intelligence 
to the problem of what was to be done with Senor Or- 
tega. Generally, he was unfit to be trusted with any 
mission whatever. The unstability of his temper was 
sure to get him into a scrape. Of course carrying a letter 
to Headquarters was not a very complicated matter; and 
as to that I would have trusted willingly a properly 
trained dog. My private letter to Dona Rita, the won- 
derful, the unique letter of farewell, I had given up for 
the present. Naturally I thought of the Ortega problem 
mainly in the terms of Dona Rita’s safety. Her image 


303 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 

presided at every council, at every conflict of my mind, 
and dominated every faculty of my senses. It floated 
before my eyes, it touched my elbow, it guarded my 
right side and my left side; my ears seemed to catch the 
sound of her footsteps behind me, she enveloped me with 
passing whiffs of warmth and perfume, with filmy touches 
of the hair on my face. She penetrated me, my head 
was full of her . . . And his head, too, I thought sud- 

denly with a side glance at my companion. He walked 
quietly with hunched-up shoulders carrying his little 
hand-bag and he looked the most commonplace figure 
imaginable. 

Yes. There was between us a most horrible fellowship; 
the association of his crazy torture with the sublime suf- 
fering of my passion. We hadn’t been a quarter of an 
hour together when that woman had surged up fatally 
between us; between this miserable wretch and myself. 
We were haunted by the same image. But I was sane! 
I was sane! Not because I was certain that the fellow 
must not be allowed to go to Tolosa, but because I was 
perfectly alive to the difficulty of stopping him from 
going there, since the decision was absolutely in the 
hands of Baron H. 

If I were to go early in the morning and tell that fat, 
bilious man: ‘‘Look here, your Ortega’s mad,” he would 
certainly think at once that I was, get very frightened, 
and . . . one couldn’t tell what course he would take. 

He would eliminate me somehow out of the affair. And 
yet I could not let the fellow proceed to where Dona Rita 
was, because, obviously, he had been molesting her, had 
filled her with uneasiness and even alarm, was an un- 
happy element and a disturbing influence in her life — 


304 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


incredible as the thing appeared! I couldnT let him go 
on to make himself a worry and a nuisance, drive her out 
from a town in which she wished to be (for whatever 
reason) and perhaps start some explosive scandal. And 
that girl Rose seemed to fear something graver even than 
a scandal. But if I were to explain the matter fully to 
H. he would simply rejoice in his heart. Nothing would 
please him more than to have Dona Rita driven out of 
Tolosa. What a relief from his anxieties (and his wife’s, 
too) ; and if I were to go further, if I even went so far as 
to hint at the fears which Rose had not been able to con- 
ceal from me, why then — I went on thinking coldly 
with a stoical rejection of the most elementary faith in 
mankind’s rectitude — why then, that accommodating 
husband would simply let the ominous messenger have 
his chance. He would see there only his natural anxieties 
being laid to rest forever. Horrible? Yes. But I could 
not take the risk. In a twelvemonth I had travelled a 
long way in my mistrust of mankind. 

We paced on steadily. I thought: ‘‘How on earth am 
I going to stop you?” Had this arisen only a month be- 
fore, when I had the means at hand and Dominic to con- 
fide in, I would have simply kidnapped the fellow. A 
little trip to sea would not have done Senor Ortega any 
harm; though no doubt it would have been abhorrent to 
his feelings. But now I had not the means. I couldn’t 
even tell where my poor Dominic was hiding his dimin- 
ished head. 

Again I glanced at him sideways. I was the taller of 
the two and as it happened I met in the light of the street 
lamp his own stealthy glance directed up at me with an 
agonized expression, an expression that made me fancy I 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


305 


could see the man’s very soul writhing in his body like an 
impaled worm. In spite of my utter inexperience I had 
some notion of the images that rushed into his mind at 
the sight of any man who had approached Dona Rita. 
It was enough to awaken in any human being a move- 
ment of horrified compassion; yet my pity went out not 
to him but to Dona Rita. It was for her that I felt 
sorry; I pitied her for having that damned soul on her 
track. I pitied her with tenderness and indignation, as 
if this had been both a danger and a dishonour. 

I don’t mean to say that those thoughts passed through 
my head consciously. I had only the resultant, settled 
feeling. I had, however, a thought, too. It came on me 
suddenly, and I asked myself with rage and astonish- 
ment: ^‘Must I then kill that brute?” There didn’t 
seem to be any alternative. Between him and Dona Rita 
I couldn’t hesitate. I believe I gave a slight laugh of 
desperation. The suddenness of this sinister conclusion 
had in it something comic and unbelievable. It loosened 
my grip on my mental processes. A Latin tag came into 
my head about the facile descent into the abyss. I mar- 
velled at its aptness, and also that it should have come 
to me so pat. But I believe now that it was suggested 
simply by the actual declivity of the street of the Con- 
suls which lies on a gentle slope. We had just turned the 
corner. All the houses were dark and in a perspective of 
complete solitude our two shadows dodged and wheeled 
about our feet. 

‘‘Here we are,” I said. 

He was an extraordinarily chilly devil. When we 
stopped I could hear his teeth chattering again. I don’t 
know what came over me, I had a sort of nervous fit, was 


306 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


incapable of finding my pockets, let alone the latchkey. 
I had the illusion of a narrow streak of light on the wall 
of the house as if it had been cracked. ‘T hope we will 
be able to get in,” I murmured. 

Senor Ortega stood waiting patiently with his hand- 
bag, like a rescued wayfarer. “But you live in this 
house, don’t you?” he observed. 

“No,” I said, without hesitation. I didn’t know how 
that man would behave if he were aware that I was staying 
under the same roof. He was half mad. He might want 
to talk all night, try crazily to invade my privacy. How 
could I tell? Moreover, I wasn’t so sure that I would re- 
main in the house. I had some notion of going out again 
and walking up and down the street of the Consuls till 
daylight. “No, an absent friend lets me use . . . T 

had that latchkey this morning . . . Ah! here it is.” 

I let him go in first. The sickly gas flame was there on 
duty, undaunted, waiting for the end of the world to 
come and put i^ out. I think that the black-and-white 
hall surprised Ortega. I had closed the front door with- 
out noise and stood for a moment listening, while he 
glanced about furtively. There were only two other 
doors in the hall, right and left. Their panels of ebony 
were decorated with bronze applications in the centre. 
The one on the left was of course Blunt’s door. As the 
passage leading beyond it was dark at the further end I 
took Senor Ortega by the hand and led him along, unre- 
sisting, like a child. For some reason or other I moved 
on tip-toe and he followed my example. The light and 
the warmth of the studio impressed him favourably; he 
laid down his little bag, rubbed his hands together, and 
produced a smile of satisfaction; but it was such a smile 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


807 


as a totally ruined man would perhaps force on his lips, 
or a man condemned to a short shrift by his doctor. I 
begged him to make himself at home and said that I 
would go at once and hunt up the woman of the house 
who would make him up a bed on the big couch there. 
He hardly listened to what I said. What were all those 
things to him! He knew that his destiny was to sleep on 
a bed of thorns, to feed on adders. But he tried to show 
a sort of polite interest. He asked: “What is this 
place?” 

“It used to belong to a painter,” I mumbled. 

“Ah, your absent friend,” he said, making a wry 
mouth. “I detest all those artists, and all those writers, 
and all politicos who are thieves; and I would go even 
farther and higher, laying a curse on all idle lovers of 
women. You think perhaps I am a Royalist? No. If 
there was anybody in heaven or hell to pray to I would 
pray for a revolution — a red revolution everywhere.” 

“You astonish me,” I said, just to say something. 

“No! But there are half a dozen people in the world 
with whom I would like to settle accounts. One could 
shoot them like partridges and no questions asked. 
That’s what revolution would mean to me.” 

“It’s a beautifully simple view,” I said. “I imagine 
you are not the only one who holds it; but I really must 
look after your comforts. You mustn’t forget that we 
have to see Baron H. early to-morrow morning.” And I 
went out quietly into the passage wondering in what part 
of the house Therese had elected to sleep that night. 
But, lo and behold, when I got to the foot of the stairs 
there was Therese coming down from the upper regions 
in her nightgown, like a sleep-walker. However, it wasn’t 


308 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


that, because, before I could exclaim, she vanished off 
the first fioor landing like a streak of white mist and 
without the slightest sound. Her attire made it perfectly 
clear that she could not have heard us coming in. In 
fact, she must have been certain that the house was 
empty, because she was as well aware as myself that the 
Italian girls after their work at the opera were going to a 
masked ball to dance for their own amusement, attended 
of course by their conscientious father. But what 
thought, need, or sudden impulse had driven Therese out 
of bed like this was something I couldn’t conceive. 

I didn’t call out after her. I felt sure that she would 
return. I went up slowly to the first floor and met her 
coming down again, this time carrying a lighted candle. 
She had managed to make herself presentable in an ex- 
traordinarily short time. 

“Oh, my dear young Monsieur, you have given me a 
fright.” 

“Yes. And I nearly fainted, too,” I said. “You 
looked perfectly awful. What’s the matter with you.? 
Are you ill?” 

She had lighted by then the gas on the landing and I 
must say that I had never seen exactly that manner of 
face on her before. She wriggled, confused and shifty- 
eyed, before me; but I ascribed this behaviour to her 
shocked modesty and without troubling myself any more 
about her feelings I informed her that there was a Car- 
list downstairs who must be put up for the night. Most 
unexpectedly she betrayed a ridiculous consternation, 
but only for a moment. Then she assumed at once that 
I would give him hospitality upstairs where there was a 
camp-bedstead in my dressing-room, I said: 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


809 


“No. Give him a shake-down in the studio, where he 
is now. It’s warm in there. And remember! I charge 
you strictly not to let him know that I sleep in this 
house. In fact, I don’t know myself that I will; I have 
certain matters to attend to this very night. You will 
also have to serve him his coffee in the morning. I will 
take him away before ten o’clock.” 

All this seemed to impress her more than I had expect- 
ed. As usual when she felt curious, or in some other way 
excited, she assumed a saintly, detached expression, and / 
asked : 

“The dear gentleman is your friend, I suppose?” 

“I only know he is a Spaniard and a Carlist,” I said; 
“and that ought to be enough for you.” 

Instead of the usual effusive exclamations she mur- 
mured: “Dear me, dear me,” and departed upstairs 
with the candle to get together a few blankets and pil- 
lows, I suppose. As for me I walked quietly downstairs 
on my way to the studio. I had a curious sensation that 
I was acting in a preordained manner, that life was not 
at all what I had thought it to be, or else that I had been 
altogether changed sometime during the day, and that I 
was a different person from the man whom I remembered 
getting out of my bed in the morning. 

Also feelings had altered all their values. The words, 
too, had become strange. It was only the inanimate sur- 
roundings that remained what they had always been. 
For instance the studio. 

During my absence Senor Ortega had taken off his 
coat and I found him as it were in the air, sitting in his 
shirt sleeves on a chair which he had taken pains to 
place in the very middle of the floor. I repressed an ab- 


310 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


surd impulse to walk round him as though he had been 
some sort of exhibit. His hands were spread over his 
knees and he looked perfectly insensible. I don’t mean 
strange, or ghastly, or wooden, but just insensible — like 
an exhibit. And that effect persisted even after he raised 
his black suspicious eyes to my face. He lowered them 
almost at once. It was very mechanical. I gave him 
up and became rather concerned about myself. My 
thought was that I had better get out of that before any 
more queer notions came into my head. So I only re- 
mained long enough to tell him that the woman of the 
house was bringing down some bedding and that I hoped 
that he would have a good night’s rest. And directly I 
spoke it struck me that this was the most extraordinary 
speech that ever was addressed to a figure of that sort. 
He, however, did not seem startled by it or moved in any 
way. He simply said: 

“Thank you.” 

In the darkest part of the long passage outside I met 
Therese with her arms full of pillows and blankets. 


V 


C OMING out of the bright light of the studio I 
didn’t make out Therese very distinctly. She, 
however, having groped in dark cupboards, must 
have had her pupils sufficiently dilated to have seen that 
I had my hat on my head. This has its importance be- 
cause after what I had said to her upstairs it must have 
convinced her that I was going out on some midnight 
business. I passed her without a word and heard behind 
me the door of the studio close with an unexpected crash. 
It strikes me now that under the circumstances I might 
have without shame gone back to listen at the keyhole. 
But truth to say the association of events was not so 
clear in my mind as it may be to the reader of this story. 
Neither were the exact connections of persons present to 
my mind. And, besides, one doesn’t listen at a keyhole 
but in pursuance of some plan; unless one is aiHfiicted by 
a vulgar and fatuous curiosity. But that vice is not in 
my character. As to plan, I had none. I moved along 
the passage between the dead wall and the black-and- 
white marble elevation of the staircase with hushed foot- 
steps, as though there had been a mortally sick person 
somewhere in the house. And the only person that could 
have answered to that description was Senor Ortega. I 
moved on, stealthy, absorbed, undecided; asking myself 
earnestly: *'What on earth am I going to do with him?*^^ 
That exclush’^e preoccupation of my mind was as dan- 
gerous to Senor Ortega as typhoid fever would have 
311 


312 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


been. It strikes me that this comparison is very exact. 
People recover from typhoid fever, but generally the 
chance is considered poor. This was precisely his case. 
His chance was poor; though I had no more animosity 
towards him than a virulent disease has against the vic- 
tim it lays low. He really would have nothing to re- 
proach me with; he had run up against me, unwittingly, 
as a man enters an infected place, and now he was very 
ill, very ill indeed. No, I had no plans against him. I 
had only the feeling that he was in mortal danger. 

I believe that men of the most daring character (and I 
make no claim to it) often do shrink from the logical 
processes of thought. It is only the devil, they say, that 
loves logic. But I was not a devil. I was not even a vic- 
tim of the devil. It was only that I had given up the 
direction of my intelligence before the problem; or rather 
that the problem had dispossessed my intelligence and 
reigned in its stead side by side with a superstitious awe. 
A dreadful order seemed to lurk in the darkest shadows 
of life. The madness of that Carlist with the soul of a 
Jacobin, the vile fears of Baron H., that excellent organ^^ 
izer of supplies, the contact of their two ferocious stupid- 
ities, and last, by a remote disaster at sea, my love 
brought into direct contact with the situation: all that 
was enough to make one shudder — not at the chance, but 
at the design. 

For it was my love that was called upon to act here, 
and nothing else. And love which elevates us above all 
safeguards, above restraining principles, above all little- 
nesses of self-possession, yet keeps its feet always firmly 
on earth, • remains marvellously practical in its sugges- 
tions. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


813 


I discovered that however much I had imagined I had 
given up Rita, that whatever agonies I had gone through, 
my hope of her had never been lost. Plucked out, 
stamped down, torn to shreds, it had remained with me 
secret, intact, invincible. Before the danger of the situ- 
ation it sprang, full of life, up in arms — the undying 
child of immortal love. What incited me was independ- 
ent of honour and compassion; it was the prompting of a 
love supreme, practical, remorseless in its aim; it was the 
practical thought that no woman need be counted as lost 
forever, unless she be dead! 

This excluded for the moment all considerations of 
ways and means and risks and difficulties. Its tremen- 
dous intensity robbed it of all direction and left me 
adrift in the big black-and-white hall as on a silent sea. 
It was not, properly speaking, irresolution. It was mere- 
ly hesitation as to the next immediate step, and that 
step even of no great importance: hesitation merely as 
to the best way I could spend the rest of the night. I 
didn’t think further forward for many reasons, more or 
less optimistic, but mainly because I have no homicidal 
vein in my composition. The disposition to gloat over 
homicide was in that miserable creature in the studio, 
the potential Jacobin; in that confounded buyer of agri- 
cultural produce, the punctual employe of Hernandez 
Brothers, the jealous wretch with an obscene tongue and 
an imagination of the same kind to drive him mad. I 
thought of him without pity but also without contempt. 
I reflected that there were no means of sending a warn- 
ing to Dona Rita in Tolosa; for of course no postal com- 
munication existed with the Headquarters. And more- 
over what would a warning be worth in this particular 


314 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


case, supposing that it would reach her, that she would be- 
lieve it, and that she would know what to do? How 
could I communicate to another that certitude which 
was in my mind, the more absolute because without 
proofs that one could produce. 

The last expression of Rose’s distress rang again in my 
ears: “Madame has no friends. Not one!” and I saw 
Dona Rita’s complete loneliness beset by all sorts of in- 
sincerities, surrounded by pitfalls; her greatest dangers 
within herself, in her generosity, in her fears, in her cour- 
age, too. What I had to do first of all was to stop that 
wretch at all costs. I became aware of a great mistrust 
of Therese. I didn’t want her to find me in the hall, 
but I was reluctant to go upstairs to my rooms from an 
unreasonable feeling that there I would be too much out 
of the way; not suflBciently on the spot. There was the 
alternative of a live-long night of watching outside, be- 
fore the dark front of the house. It was a most distaste- 
ful prospect. And then it occurred to me that Blunt’s 
former room would be an extremely good place to keep 
a watch from. I knew that room. When Henry Allegre 
gave the house to Rita in the early days (long before he 
made his will) he had planned a complete renovation and 
this room had been meant for the drawing-room. Furni- 
ture had been made for it specially, upholstered in beau- 
tiful ribbed stuff, made to order, of dull gold colour with 
a pale blue tracery of arabesques and oval medallions 
enclosing Rita’s monogram, repeated on the backs of 
chairs and sofas, and on the heavy curtains reaching from 
ceiling to floor. To the same time belonged the ebony 
and bronze doors, the silver statuette at the foot of the 
stairs, the forged iron balustrade reproducing right up 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


S15 


the marble staircase Rita’s decorative monogram in iti 
complicated design. Afterwards the work was stopped and 
the house had fallen into disrepair. When Rita devoted 
it to the Carlist cause a bed was put into that drawing- 
room, just simply the bed. The room next to that yel- 
low salon had been in Allegre’s young days fitted as a 
fencing-room containing also a bath, and a complicated 
system of all sorts of shower and jet arrangements, then 
quite up to date. That room was very large, lighted 
from the top, and one wall of it was covered by trophies 
of arms of all sorts, a choice collection of cold steel dis- 
posed on a background of Indian mats and rugs. Blunt 
used it as a dressing-room. It communicated by a small 
door with the studio. 

I had only to extend my hand and make one step to 
reach the magnificent bronze handle of the ebony door, 
and if I didn’t want to be caught by Therese there was 
no time to lose. I made the step and extended the hand, 
thinking that it would be just like my luck to find the 
door locked. But the door came open to my push. lii 
contrast to the dark hall the room was most unexpect- 
edly dazzling to my eyes, as if illuminated a giorno for a 
reception. No voice came from it, but nothing could 
have stopped me now. As I turned round to shut the 
door behind me noiselessly I caught sight of a woman’s 
dress on a chair, of other articles of apparel scattered 
about. The mahogany bed with a piece of light silk 
which Therese found somewhere and used for a counter- 
pane was a magnificent combination of white and crim- 
son between the gleaming surfaces of dark wood; and the 
whole room had an air of splendour with marble con- 
soles, gilt carvings, long mirrors, and a sumptuous Vene- 


318 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


tian lustre depending from the ceiling: a darkling mass 
of icy pendants catching a spark here and there from the 
candles of an eight-branched candelabra standing on a lit- 
tle table near the head of a sofa which had been dragged 
round to face the fireplace. The faintest possible whiff 
of a familiar perfume made my head swim with its sug- 
gestion. 

I grabbed the back of the nearest piece of furniture 
and the splendour of marbles and mirrors, of cut crystals 
and carvings, swung before my eyes in the golden mist of 
walls and draperies round an extremely conspicuous pair 
of black stockings thrown over a music stool which re- 
mained motionless. The silence was profound. It was 
like being in an enchanted place. Suddenly a voice be- 
gan to speak, clear, detached, infinitely touching in its 
calm weariness. 

“Haven’t you tormented me enough to-day?” it 
said. . . . My head was steady now but my heart 

began to beat violently. I listened to the end without 
moving. “Can’t you make up your mind to leave me 
alone for to-night?” It pleaded with an accent of char- 
itable scorn. 

The penetrating quality of these tones which I had not 
heard for so many, many days made my eyes run full of 
tears. I guessed easily that the appeal was addressed to 
the atrocious Therese. The speaker was concealed from 
me by the high back of the sofa, but her apprehension 
was perfectly justified. For was it not I who had turned 
back Therese the pious, the insatiable, coming downstairs 
in her nightgown to torment her sister some more? Mere 
surprise at Dona Rita’s presence in the house was enough 
to paralyze me; but I was also overcome by an enormoir^ 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


SIT 


sense of relief, by the assurance of security for her and for 
myself. I didn’t even ask myself how she came there. It 
was enough for me that she was not in Tolosa. I could 
have smiled at the thought that all I had to do now was 
to hasten the departure of that abominable lunatic — for 
Tolosa: an easy task, almost no task at all. Yes, I 
could have smiled, had I not felt outraged by the pres- 
ence of Senor Ortega under the same roof with Dona 
Rita. The mere fact was repugnant to me, morally re- 
volting; so that I should have liked to rush at him and 
throw him out into the street. But that was not to be 
done for various reasons. One of them was pity. I was 
suddenly at peace with all mankind, with all nature. I 
felt as if I couldn’t hurt a fly. The intensity of my emo- 
tion sealed my lips. With a fearful joy tugging at my 
heart I moved round the head of the couch without a word. 

In the wide flreplace on a pile of white ashes the logs 
had a deep crimson glow; and turned towards them Dona 
Rita reclined on her side enveloped in the skins of wild 
beasts like a charming and savage young chieftain before 
a camp fire. She never even raised her eyes, giving me 
the opportunity to contemplate mutely that adolescent, 
delicately masculine head, so mysteriously feminine in 
the power of instant seduction, so infinitely suave in its 
firm design, almost childlike in the freshness of detail: 
altogether ravishing in the inspired strength of the mod- 
elling. That precious head reposed in the palm of her 
hand; the face was slightly flushed (with anger perhaps). 
She kept her eyes obstinately fixed on the pages of a 
book which she was holding with her other hand. I had 
the time to lay my infinite adoration at her feet whose 
white insteps gleamed below the dark edge of the fur out 


S18 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


of quilted blue silk bedroom slippers, embroidered with 
small pearls. I had never seen them before; I mean the 
slippers. The gleam of the insteps, too, for that matter. 
I lost myself in a feeling of deep content, something like 
a foretaste of a time of felicity which must be quiet or it 
couldn’t be eternal. I had never tasted such perfect 
quietness before. It was not of this earth. I had gone 
far beyond. It was as if I had reached the ultimate wis- 
dom beyond all dreams and all passions. She was That 
which is to be Contemplated to all Infinity. 

The perfect stillness and silence made her raise her 
eyes at last, reluctantly, with a hard, defensive expres- 
sion which I had never seen in them before. And no 
wonder! The glance was meant for Therese and assumed 
in self-defence. For some time its character did not 
change and when it did it turned into a perfectly stony 
stare of a kind which I also had never seen before. She 
had never wished so much to be left in peace. She had 
never been so astonished in her life. It appeared she had 
arrived by the evening express only two hours before 
Senor Ortega, had driven to the house, and after having 
something to eat had become for the rest of the evening 
the helpless prey of her sister who had fawned and scold- 
ed and wheedled and threatened in a way that outraged all 
Rita’s feelings. Seizing this unexpected occasion Therese 
had displayed a distracting versatility of sentiment: 
rapacity, virtue, piety, spite, and false tenderness — while, 
characteristically enough, she unpacked the dressing-bag, 
helped the sinner to get ready for bed, brushed her hair, 
and finally, as a climax, kissed her hands, partly by sur- 
prise and partly by violence. After that she had retired 
from the field of battle slowly, undefeated, still defiant. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


319 


firing as a last shot the impudent question: ^‘Tell me 
only, have you made your will, Rita?” To this poor 
Dona Rita with the spirit of opposition strung to the 
highest pitch answered: "‘No, and I don't mean to” — 
being under the impression that this was what her sister 
wanted her to do. There can be no doubt, however, that 
all Therese wanted was the information. 

Rita, much too agitated to expect anything but a sleep- 
less night, had not the courage to get into bed. She 
thought she would remain on the sofa before the fire and 
try to compose herself with a book. As she had no dress- 
ing-gown with her she put on her long fur coat over her 
night-gown, threw some logs on the fire, and lay down. 
She didn’t hear the slightest noise of any sort till she 
heard me shut the door gently. Quietness of movement 
was one of Therese’s accomplishments, and the harassed 
heir of the Allegre millions naturally thought it was her 
sister coming again to renew the scene. Her heart sank 
within her. In the end she became a little frightened at 
the long silence, and raised her eyes. She didn’t believe 
them for a long time. She concluded that I was a vision. 
In fact, the first word which I heard her utter was a low, 
awed “No,” which, though I understood its meaning, 
chilled my blood like an evil omen. 

It was then that I spoke. “Yes,” I said, “it’s me that 
you see,” and made a step forward. She didn’t start; 
only her other hand flew to the edges of the fur coat, grip- 
ping them together over her breast. Observing this ges- 
ture I sat down in the nearest chair. The book she had 
been reading slipped with a thump on the floor. 

“How is it possible that you should be here?” she said, 
still in a doubting voice. 


320 THE ARROW OF GOLD 

“I am really here,” I said. “Would you like to touch 
my hand?” 

She didn’t move at all; her fingers still clutched the 
fur coat. 

“What has happened?” 

“It’s a long story, but you may take it from me that 
all is over. The tie between us is broken. I don’t know 
that it was ever very close. It was an external thing. 
The true misfortune is that I have ever seen you.” 

This last phrase was provoked by an exclamation of 
sympathy on her part. She raised herself on her elbow 
and looked at me intently. “All over,” she murmured. 

“Yes, we had to wreck the little vessel. It was awful. 
I feel like a murderer. But she had to be killed.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I loved her too much. Don’t you know that 
love and death go very close together?” 

“I could feel almost happy that it is all over, if you 
hadn’t had to lose your love. Oh, amigo George, it was 
a safe love for you.” 

“Yes,” I said. “It was a faithful little vessel. She 
would have saved us all from any plain danger. But this 
was a betrayal. It was — never mind. All that’s past. 
The question is what will the next one be?” 

“Why should it be that?” 

“I don’t know. Life seems but a series of betrayals. 
There are so many kinds of them. This was a betrayed 
plan, but one can betray confidence, and hope and — de- 
sire, and the most sacred . . . ” 

“But what are you doing here?” she interrupted. 

“Oh, yes! The eternal why. Till a few hours ago I 
didn’t know what I was here for. And what are you 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


321 


here for?” I asked point blank and with a bitterness she 
disregarded. She even answered my question quite read- 
ily with many words out of which I could make very 
little. I only learned that for at least five mixed reasons, 
none of which impressed me profoundly, Dona Rita had 
started at a moment’s notice from Paris with nothing but 
a dressing-bag, and permitting Rose to go and visit her 
aged parents for two days, and then follow her mistress. 
That girl of late had looked so perturbed and worried 
that the sensitive Rita, fearing that she was tired of her 
place, proposed to settle a sum of money on her which 
would have enabled her to devote herself entirely to her 
aged parents. And did I know what that extraordinary 
girl said.^ She had said: ‘‘Don’t let Madame think that 
I would be too proud to accept anything whatever from 
her; but I can’t even dream of leaving Madame. I be- 
lieve Madame has no friends. Not one.” So instead of 
a large sum of money Dona Rita gave the girl a kiss and 
as she had been worried by several people who wanted 
her to go to Tolosa she bolted down this way just to get 
clear of all those busybodies. “Hide from them,” she 
went on with ardour. “Yes, I came here to hide,” she 
repeated twice as if delighted at last to have hit on that 
reason among so many others. “How could I tell that 
you would be here?” Then with sudden fire which only 
added to the delight with which I had been watching the 
play of her physiognomy she added: “Why did you 
come into this room?” 

She enchanted me. The ardent modulations of the 
sound, the slight play of the beautiful lips, the still, deep 
sapphire gleam in those long eyes inherited from the 
dawn of ages and that seemed always to watch unimagin- 


322 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


able things, that underlying faint ripple of gaiety that 
played under all her moods as though it had been a gift 
from the high gods moved to pity for this lonely mortal, 
all this within the four walls and displayed for me alone 
gave me the sense of almost intolerable joy. The words 
didn’t matter. They had to be answered, of course. 

“I came in for several reasons. One of them is that I 
didn’t know you were here.” 

“Therese didn’t tell you?” 

“No.” 

“Never talked to you about me?” 

I hesitated only for a moment. “Never,” I said. 
Then I asked in my turn, “Did she tell you I was here?” 

“No,” she said. 

“It’s very clear she did not mean us to come together 
again.” 

“Neither did I, my dear.” 

“What do you mean by speaking like this, in this tone, 
in these words? You seem to use them as if they were 
a sort of formula. Am I a dear to you? Or is any- 
body? ... or everybody? . . . ” 

She had been for some time raised on her elbow, but 
then as if something had happened to her vitality she 
sank down till her head rested again on the sofa 
cushion. 

“Why do you try to hurt my feelings?” she asked. 

“For the same reason for which you call me dear at 
the end of a sentence like that: for want of something 
more amusing to do. You don’t pretend to make me 
believe that you do it for any sort of reason that a decent 
person would confess to.” 

The colour had gone from her face; but a fit of wicked- 


S23 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 

ness was on me and I pursued, “What are the motives of 
your speeches? What prompts your actions? On your 
own showing your life seems to be a continuous running 
away. You have just run away from Paris. Where will 
you run to-morrow? What are you everlastingly run- 
ning from — or is it that you are running after some- 
thing? What is it? A man, a phantom — or some sen- 
sation that you don’t like to own to?” 

Truth to say, I was abashed by the silence which was 
her only answer to this sally. I said to myself that I 
would not let my natural anger, my just fury be dis- 
armed by any assumption of pathos or dignity. I sup- 
pose I was really out of my mind and what in the middle 
ages would have been called “possessed” by an evil spir- 
it. I went on enjoying my own villainy. 

“Why aren’t you in Tolosa? You ought to be in To- 
losa. Isn’t Tolosa the proper field for your abilities, for 
your sympathies, for your profusions, for your generos- 
ities — the king without a crown, the man without a for- 
tune! But here there is nothing worthy of your talents. 
No, there is no longer anything worth any sort of trouble 
here. There isn’t even that ridiculous Monsieur George. 
I understand that the talk of the coast from here to 
Cette is that Monsieur George is drowned. Upon my 
word I believe he is. And serve him right, too. There’s 
Therese, but I don’t suppose that your love for your sis- 
ter . . 

“For goodness sake don’t let her come in and find you 
here.” 

Those words recalled me to myself, exorcised the evil 
spirit by the mere enchanting power of the voice. They 
were also impressive by their suggestion of something 


324 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


practical, utilitarian, and remote from sentiment. Thw 
evil spirit left me and I remained taken aback slightly. 

“Well,” I said, “if you mean that you want me to 
leave the room I will confess to you that I can’t very 
well do it yet. But I could lock both doors if you don’t 
mind that.” 

“Do what you like as long as you keep her out. You 
two together would be too much for me to-night. Why 
don’t you go and lock those doors? I have a feeling she 
is on the prowl.” 

I got up at once saying, “I imagine she has gone to 
bed by this time.” I felt absolutely calm and responsi- 
ble. I turned the keys one after another so gently that I 
couldn’t hear the click of the locks myself. This done I 
recrossed the room with measured steps, with downcast 
eyes, and approaching the couch without raising them 
from the carpet I sank down on my knees and leaned 
my forehead on its edge. That penitential attitude had 
but little remorse in it. I detected no movement and 
heard no sound from her. In one place a bit of the fur 
coat touched my cheek softly, but no forgiving hand 
came to rest on my bowed head. I only breathed deeply 
the faint scent of violets, her own particular fragrance 
enveloping my body, penetrating my very heart with an 
inconceivable intimacy, bringing me closer to her than 
the closest embrace, and yet so subtle that I sensed her 
existence in me only as a great, glowing, indeterminate 
tenderness, something like the evening light disclosing 
after the white passion of the day infinite depths in the 
colours of the sky and an unsuspected soul of peace in 
the protean forms of life. I had not known such quiet- 
ness for months; and I detected in myself an immense 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


825 


fatigue, a longing to remain where I was without chang- 
ing my position to the end of time. Indeed to remain 
seemed to me a complete solution for all the problems 
that life presents — even as to the very death itself. 

Only the unwelcome reflection that this was impossible 
made me get up at last with a sigh of deep grief at the 
end of the dream. But I got up without despair. She 
didn’t murmur, she didn’t stir. There was something 
august in the stillness of the room. It was a strange 
tranquillity which she shared with me in this unexpected 
shelter full of disorder in its neglected splendour. What 
troubled me was the sudden, as it were material, con- 
sciousness of time passing as water flows. It seemed to 
me that it was only the tenacity of my sentiment that 
held that woman’s body, extended and tranquil above 
the flood. But when I ventured at last to look at her 
face I saw her flushed, her teeth clenched — it was visi- 
ble — her nostrils dilated, and in her narrow, level-glanc- 
ing eyes a look of inward and frightened ecstasy. The 
edges of the fur coat had fallen open and I was moved to 
turn away. I had the same impression as on the evening 
we parted that something had happened which I did not 
understand; only this time I had not touched her at all. 
I really didn’t understand. At her slightest whisper I 
would now have gone out without a murmur, as though 
that emotion had given her the right to be obeyed. But 
there was no whisper; and for a long time I stood leaning 
on my arm, looking into the fire and feeling distinctly 
between the four walls of that locked room the un- 
checked time flow past our two stranded personalities. 

And suddenly she spoke. She spoke in that voice that 
was so profoundly moving without ever being sad, a lit- 


326 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


tie wistful perhaps, and always the supreme expression of 
her grace. She asked as if nothing had happened : 

“What are you thinking of, amigo?” 

I turned about. She was lying on her side, tranquU 
above the smooth flow of time, again closely wrapped up 
in her fur, her head resting on the old-gold sofa cushion 
bearing like everything else in that room the decoratively 
enlaced letters of her monogram; her face a little pale 
now, with a crimson lobe of her ear under the tavmy mist 
of her loose hair, the lips a little parted, and her glance 
of melted sapphire level and motionless, darkened by 
fatigue. 

“Can I think of anything but you?” I murmured, 
taking a seat near the foot of the couch. “Or rather it 
isn’t thinking, it is more like the consciousness of you 
always being present in me, complete to the last hair, 
to the faintest shade of expression, and that not only 
when we are apart but when we are together, alone, as 
close as this. I see you now lying on this couch but that 
is only the insensible phantom of the real you that is in 
me. And it is the easier for me to feel this because that 
image which others see and call by your name — how am 
I to know that it is anything else but an enchanting 
mist? You have always eluaed me except in one or two 
moments which seem still more dream-like than the rest. 
Since I came into this room you have done nothing to 
destroy my conviction of your unreality apart from my- 
self. You haven’t offered me your hand to touch. Is it 
because you suspect that apart from me you are but a 
mere phantom, and that you fear to put it to the test?” 

One of her hands was under the fur and the other 
under her cheek. She made no sound. She didn’t offer 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 327 

to stir. She didn’t move her eyes, not even after I had 
added after waiting for a while, 

“Just what I expected. You are a cold illusion.” 

She smiled mysteriously, right away from me, straight 
at the fire, and that was all. 


VI 


I HAD a momentary suspicion that I had said some- 
thing stupid. Her smile amongst many other things 
seemed to have meant that, too. And I answered it 
with a certain resignation: 

“Well, I don’t know that you are so much mist. I 
remember once hanging oh to you like a drowning 
man . . . But perhaps I had better not speak of 
this. It wasn’t so very long ago, and you may . . .” 

“I don’t mind. Well. . .” 

“Well, I have kept an impression of great solidity. 
I’ll admit that. A woman of granite.” 

“A doctor once told me that I was made to last for- 
ever,” she said. 

“But essentially it’s the same thing,” I went on. 
“Granite, too, is insensible.” 

I watched her profile against the pillow and there came 
on her face an expression I knew well when with an in- 
dignation full of suppressed laughter she used to throw 
at me the word “Imbecile.” I expected it to come, but 
it didn’t come. I must say, though, that I was swimmy 
in my head and now and then had a noise as of the sea 
in my ears, so I might not have heard it. The woman of 
granite, built to last forever, continued to look at the 
glowing logs which made a sort of fiery ruin on the white 
pile of ashes. “I will tell you how it is,” I said. “When 
I have you before my eyes there is such a projection of 
my whole being towards you that I fail to see you dis- ^ 
S2S 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


829 


tinctly. It was like that from the beginning. I may 
say that I never saw you distinctly till after we had 
parted and I thought you had gone from my sight for- 
ever. It was then that you took body in my imagination 
and that my mind seized on a definite form of you for 
all its adorations — for its profanations, too. Don’t im- 
agine me grovelling in spiritual abasement before a mere 
image. I got a grip on you that nothing can shake now.” 

‘‘Don’t speak like this,” she said. “It’s too much for 
me. And there is a whole long night before us.” 

“You don’t think that I dealt with you sentimentally 
enough perhaps? But the sentiment was there; as clear 
a flame as ever burned on earth from the most remote 
ages before that eternal thing which is in you, which is 
your heirloom. And is it my fault that what I had to 
give was real flame, and not a mystic’s incense? It is 
neither your fault nor mine. And now whatever we say 
to each other at night or in daylight, that sentiment must 
be taken for granted. It will be there on the day I die 
— when you won’t be there.” 

She continued to look fi^cadly at the red embers; and 
from her lips that hardly moved came the quietest possi- 
ble whisper: “Nothing would be easier than to die for 
you.” 

“Really,” I cried. “And you expect me perhaps after 
this to kiss your feet in a transport of gratitude while I 
hug the pride of your words to my breast. But as it 
happens there is nothing in me but contempt for this 
sublime declaration. How dare you offer me this charla- 
tanism of passion? What has it got to do between you 
and me who are the only two beings in the world that 
may safely say that we have no need of shams between 


330 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


ourselves ? Is it possible that you are a charlatan at 
heart? Not from egoism, I admit, but from some sort of 
fear. Yet, should you be sincere, then — listen well to 
me — I would never forgive you. I would visit your 
grave every day to curse you for an evil thing.” 

“Evil thing,” she echoed softly. 

“Would you prefer to be a sham — that one could for- 
get?” 

“You will never forget me,” she said in the same tone 
at the glowing embers. “Evil or good. But, my dear, I 
feel neither an evil nor a sham. I have got to be what I 
am, and that, amigo, is not so easy; because I may be 
simple but like all those on whom there is no peace I am 
not One. No, I am not One!” 

“You are all the women in the world,” I whispered, 
bending over her. She didn’t seem to be aware of any- 
thing and only spoke — always to the glow. 

“If I were that I would say: God help them then. 
But that would be more appropriate for Therese. For 
me, I can only give them my infinite compassion. I 
have too much reverence in me to invoke the name of a 
God of whom clever men have robbed me a long time 
ago. How could I help it? For the talk was clever and 
— and I had a mind. And I am also, as Therese says, 
naturally sinful. Yes, my dear, I may be naturally 
wicked but I am not evil and I could die for you.” 

“You!” I said. “You are afraid to die.” 

“Yes. But not for you.” 

The whole structure of glowing logs fell down, raising 
a small turmoil of white ashes and sparks. The tiny 
crash seemed to wake her up thoroughly. She turned 
her head upon the cushion to look at me. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


831 


“It’s a very extraordinary thing, we two coming to- 
gether like this,” she said with conviction. “You com- 
ing in without knowing I was here and then telling me 
that you can’t very well go out of the room. That sounds 
funny. I wouldn’t have been angry if you had said that 
you wouldn’t. It would have hurt me. But nobody ever 
paid much attention to my feelings. Why do you smile 
like this?” 

“At a thought. Without any charlatanism of passion 
I am able to tell you of something to match your devo- 
tion. I was not afraid for your sake to come within a 
hair’s breadth of what to all the world would have been 
a squalid crime. Note that you and I are persons of 
honour. And there might have been a criminal trial at 
the end of it for me. Perhaps the scaffold.” 

“Do you say these horrors to make me tremble?” 

“Oh, you needn’t tremble. There shall be no crime. 
I need not risk the seaflfold, since now you are safe. But 
I entered this room meditating resolutely on the ways of 
murder, calculating possibilities and chances without the 
slightest compunction. It’s all over now. It was all over 
directly I saw you here, but it had been so near that I 
shudder yet.” 

She must have been very startled because for a time 
she couldn’t speak. Then in a faint voice: 

“For me! For me!” she faltered out twice. 

“For you — or for myself? Yet it couldn’t have been 
selfish. W’hat would it have been to me that you re- 
mained in the world? I never expected to see you again. 
I even composed a most beautiful letter of farewell. 
Such a letter as no woman had ever received.” 

Instantly she shot out a hand towards me. The edges 


832 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


of the fur cloak fell apart. A wave of the faintest possi- 
ble scent floated into my nostrils. 

“Let me have it,” she said imperiously. 

“You can’t have it. It’s all in my head. No woman 
will read it. I suspect it was something that could never 
have been written. But what a farewell! And now I 
suppose we shall say good-bye without even a handshake. 
But you are safe! Only I must ask you not to come out 
of this room till I tell you you may.” 

I was extremely anxious that Senor Ortega should 
never even catch a glimpse of Dofia Rita, never guess 
how near he had been to her. Now I was extremely anx- 
ious the fellow should depart for Tolosa and get shot in 
a ravine; or go to the Devil in his own way, as long as he 
lost the track of Dona Rita completely. He then, prob- 
ably, would get mad and get shut up, or else get cured, 
forget all about it, and devote himself to his vocation, 
whatever it was — keep a shop and grow fat. All this 
flashed through my mind in an instant and while I was 
still dazzled by those comforting images, the voice of 
Dona Rita pulled me up with a jerk. 

“You mean not out of the house.^” 

“No, I meant not out of this room,” I said with some 
embarrassment. 

“What do you mean? Is there something in the house 
then? This is most extraordinary! Stay in this room? 
And you, too, it seems? Are you also afraid for your- 
self?” 

“I can’t even give you an idea how afraid I was. I 
am not so much now. But you know very well, Dofia 
Rita, that I never carry any sort of weapon in my 
pocket.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


333 


^‘Why don’t you, then?” she asked in a flash of 
scorn which bewitched me so completely for an instant 
that I couldn’t even smile at it. 

‘‘Because if I am unconventionalized I am an old 
European,” I murmured gently. “No, Excellentissima, 
I shall go through life without as much as a switch in 
my hand. It’s no use you being angry. Adapting to 
this great moment some words you’ve heard before: I 
am like that. Such is my character!” 

Dona Rita frankly stared at me — a most unusual ex- 
pression for her to have. Suddenly she sat up. 

“Don George,” she said with lovely animation, “I in- 
sist upon knowing who is in my house.” 

“You insist! . . . But Therese says it is her 

house.” 

Had there been anything handy, such as a cigarette 
box, for instance, it would have gone sailing through the 
air spouting cigarettes as it went. Rosy all over, cheeks, 
neck, shoulders, she seemed lighted up softly from inside 
like a beautiful transparency. But she didn’t raise her 
voice. 

“You and Therese have sworn my ruin. If you don’t 
tell me what you mean I will go outside and shout up the 
stairs to make her come down. I know there is no one 
but the three of us in the house.” 

“Yes, three; but not counting my Jacobin. There is a 
Jacobin in the house.” 

“A Jac . . . ! Oh, George, is this the time to 

jest?” she began in persuasive tones when a faint but 
peculiar noise stilled her lips as though they had been 
suddenly frozen. She became quiet all over instantly. I, 
on the contrary, made an involuntary movement before 


334 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


I, tcK), became as still as death. We strained our ears; but 
that peculiar metallic rattle had been so slight and the 
silenee now was so perfect that it was very difficult to 
believe one’s senses. Dona Rita looked inquisitively at 
me. I gave her a slight nod. We remained looking into 
each other’s eyes while we listened and listened till the si- 
lence became unbearable. Dona Rita whispered com- 
posedly: “Did you hear?” 

“I am asking myself ... I almost think I didn’t.” 

“Don’t shuffle with me. It was a scraping noise.” 

“Something fell.” 

“Something! What thing? What are the things that 
fall by themselves? Who is that man of whom you 
spoke? Is there a man?” 

“No doubt about it whatever. I brought him here 
myself.” 

“What for?” 

“Why shouldn’t I have a Jacobin of my own. Haven’t 
you one, too? But mine is a different problem from that 
white-haired humbug of yours. He is a genuine article. 
There must be plenty like him about. He has scores to 
settle with half a dozen people, he says, and he clamours 
for revolutions to give him a chance.” 

“But why did you bring him here?” 

“I don’t know — ^from sudden affection . . .” 

All this passed in such low tones that we seemed to 
make out the words more by watching each other’s lips 
than through our sense of hearing. Man is a strange 
animal. I didn’t care what I said. All I wanted was to 
keep her in her pose, excited and still, sitting up with her 
hair loose, softly glowing, the dark brown fur making a 
wonderful contrast with the white lace on her breast. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


335 


All I was thinking of was that she was adorable and 
too lovely for words! I cared for nothing but that sub- 
limely aesthetic impression. It summed up all life, all 
joy, all poetry! It had a divine strain. I am certain 
that I was not in my right mind. I suppose I was not 
quite sane. I am convinced that at that moment of the 
four people in the house it was Dona Rita who upon the 
whole was the most sane. She observed my face and I 
am sure she read there something of my inward exalta- 
tion. She knew what to do. In the softest possible tone 
and hardly above her breath she commanded: “George, 
come to yourself.” 

Her gentleness had the effect of evening light. I was 
soothed. Her confidence in her own power touched me 
profoundly. I suppose my love was too great for mad- 
ness to get hold of me. I can’t say that I passed to a 
complete calm, but I became slightly ashamed of myself. 
I whispered: 

“No, it was not from affection, it was for the love of 
you that I brought him here. That imbecile H. was 
going to send him to Tolosa.” 

“ That Jacobin ! ” Dona Rita was immensely surprised, 
as she might well have been. Then resigned to the in- 
comprehensible: “Yes,” she breathed out, “what did 
you do with him?” 

“I put him to bed in the studio.” 

How lovely she was with the effort of close attention 
depicted in the turn of her head and in her whole face 
honestly trying to approve. “And then?” she inquired. 

“Then I came in here to face calmly the necessity of 
doing away with a human life. I didn’t shirk it for a 
flOLoment. That’s what a short twelvemonth has brought 


336 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


me to. Don’t think I am reproaching you, O blind force! 
You are justified because you are. Whatever had to 
happen you would not even have heard of it.” 

Horror darkened her marvellous radiance. Then her 
face became utterly blank with the tremendous effort to 
understand. Absolute silence reigned in the house. It 
seemed to me that everything had been said now that 
mattered in the world; and that the world itself had 
reached its ultimate stage, had reached its appointed end 
of an eternal, phantom-like silence. Suddenly Dona Rita 
raised a warning finger. I had heard nothing and shook 
my head; but she nodded hers and murmured excitedly, 
“Yes, yes, in the fencing-room, as before.” 

In the same way I answered her: “Impossible! The 
door is locked and Therese has the key.” She asked 
then in the most cautious manner, 

“Have you seen Therese to-night.^” 

“Yes,” I confessed without misgiving. “I left her 
making up the fellow’s bed when I came in here.” 

“The bed of the Jacobin.?” she said in a peculiar tone 
as if she were humouring a lunatic. 

“I think I had better tell you he is a Spaniard — that 
he seems to know you from early days. . . .” I 

glanced at her face, it was extremely tense, apprehensive. 
For myself I had no longer any doubt as to the man and 
I hoped she would reach the correct conclusion herself. 
But I believe she was too distracted and worried to think 
consecutively. She only seemed to feel some terror in 
the air. In very pity I bent down and whispered care- 
fully near her ear, “His name is Ortega.” 

I expected some effect from that name but I never ex- 
pected to see what really happened. With the sudden. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


337 


free, spontaneous agility of a young animal she leaped off 
the sofa, leaving her slippers behind, and in one bound 
reached almost the middle of the room. The vigour, the 
instinctive precision of that spring, were something amaz- 
ing. I just escaped being knocked over. She landed 
lightly on her bare feet with a perfect balance, without 
the slightest suspicion of swaying in her instant immobil- 
ity. It lasted less than a second, then she spun round 
distractedly and darted at the first door she could see. 
My own agility was just enough to enable me to grip the 
back of the fur coat and then catch her round the body 
before she could wriggle herself out of the sleeves. She 
was muttering all the time, ‘‘No, no, no.” She aban- 
doned herself to me just for an instant during which I 
got her back to the middle of the room. There she at- 
tempted to free herself and I let her go at once. With 
her face very close to mine, but apparently not knowing 
what she was looking at she repeated again twice, “No — 
No,” with an intonation which might well have brought 
dampness to my eyes but which only made me regret 
that I didn’t kill the honest Ortega at sight. Suddenly 
Dona Rita swung round and seizing her loose hair with 
both hands started twisting it up before one of the sump- 
tuous mirrors. The wide fur sleeves slipped down her 
white arms. In a brusque movement like a downward 
stab she fixed the whole mass of tawny glints and sparks 
with the arrow of gold which she perceived lying there, 
before her, on the marble console. Then she sprang away 
from the glass muttering feverishly, “Out — out — out 
of this house,” and trying with an awful, senseless stare 
to dodge past me who had put myself in her way with 
open arms. At last I managed to seize her by the shoulders 


338 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


and in the extremity of my distress I shook her violently. 
If she hadn’t quieted down then I believe my heart would 
have broken. I spluttered right into her face: “I won’t 
let you. Here you stay.” She seemed to recognize me 
at last, and suddenly still, perfectly firm on her white 
feet, she let her arms fall and, from an abyss of desolation, 
whispered, “O! George! No! No! Not Ortega.” 

There was a passion of mature grief in this tone of 
appeal. And yet she remained as touching and helpless 
as a distressed child. It had all the simplicity and depth 
of a child’s emotion. It tugged at one’s heart-strings in 
the same direct way. But what could one do? How 
could one soothe her? It was impossible to pat her on 
the head, take her on the knee, give her a chocolate or 
show her a picture-book. I found myself absolutely 
without resource. Completely at a loss. 

“Yes, Ortega. Well, what of it?” I whispered with 
immense assiirance. 


vn 


M y brain was in a whirl. I am safe to say that at 
this precise moment there was nobody complete- 
ly sane in the house. Setting apart Therese and 
Ortega, both in the grip of unspeakable passions, all the 
moral economy of Dona Rita had gone to pieces. Every- 
thing was gone except her strong sense of life with all its 
implied menaces. The woman was a mere chaos of sen- 
sations and vitality. I, too, suffered most from inability 
to get hold of some fundamental thought. The one on 
which I could best build some hopes was the thought 
that, of course, Ortega did not know anything. I whis- 
pered this into the ear of Dona Rita, into her precious, 
her beautifully shaped ear. 

But she shook her head, very much like an inconsol- 
able child and very much with a child’s complete pessi- 
mism she murmured, ^‘Therese has told him.” 

The words, ^‘Oh, nonsense,” never passed my lips, be- 
cause I could not cheat myself into denying that there 
had been a noise; and that the noise was in the fencing- 
room. I knew that room. There was nothing there that 
by the wildest stretch of imagination could be conceived 
as falling with that particular sound. There was a table 
with a tall strip of looking-glass above it at one end; but 
since Blunt took away his campaigning kit there was no 
small object of any sort on the console or anywhere else 
that could have been jarred off in some mysterious man- 
ner. Along one of the walls there was the whole compli- 

339 


340 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


cated apparatus of solid brass pipes, and quite close to 
it an enormous bath sunk into the floor. The greatest 
part of the room along its whole length was covered with 
matting and had nothing else but a long, narrow leather- 
upholstered bench fixed to the wall. And that was all. 
And the door leading to the studio was locked. And 
Therese had the key. And it flashed on my mind, inde- 
pendently of Dona Rita’s pessimism, by the force of per- 
sonal conviction, that, of course, Therese would tell him. 
I beheld the whole succession of events perfectly connect- 
ed and tending to that particular conclusion. Therese 
would tell him! I could see the contrasted heads of those 
two formidable lunatics close together in a dark mist of 
whispers compounded of greed, piety, and jealousy, plot- 
ting in a sense of perfect security as if under the very 
wing of Providence. So at least Therese would think. 
She could not be but under the impression that (provi- 
dentially) I had been called out for the rest of the night. 

And now there was one sane person in the house, for I 
had regained complete command of my thoughts. Work- 
ing in a logical succession of images they showed me at 
last as clearly as a picture on a wall, Therese pressing 
with fervour the key into the fevered palm of the rich, 
prestigious, virtuous cousin, so that he should go and 
urge his self-sacrificing offer to Rita, and gain merit be- 
fore Him whose Eye sees all the actions of men. And 
this image of those two with the key in the studio seemed 
to me a most monstrous conception of fanaticism, of a 
perfectly horrible aberration. For who could mistake 
the state that made Jos6 Ortega the figure he was, in- 
spiring both pity and fear? I could not deny that I un- 
derstood, not the full extent but the exact nature of his 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


341 


suffering. Young as I was I had solved for myself that 
grotesque and sombre personality. His contact with me, 
the actual personal contact with (as he thought) one of 
the actual lovers of that woman who brought to him as a 
boy the curse of the gods, had tipped over the trembling 
scales. No doubt I was very near death in the ‘‘grand 
salon” of the Maison Doree, only that his torture had 
gone too far. It seemed to me that I ought to have 
heard his very soul scream while we were seated at sup- 
per. But in a moment he had ceased to care for me. I 
was nothing. To the crazy exaggeration of his jealousy I 
was but one amongst a hundred thousand. What was 
my death? Nothing. All mankind had possessed that 
woman. I knew what his wooing of her would be: Mine 
— or Dead. 

All this ought to have had the clearness of noon-day, 
even to the veriest idiot that ever lived; and Therese was, 
properly speaking, exactly that. An idiot. A one-ideaed 
creature. Only the idea was complex; therefore it was 
impossible really to say what she wasn’t capable of. This 
was what made her obscure processes so awful. She had 
at times the most amazing perceptions. Who could tell 
where her simplicity ended and her cunning began? She 
had also the faculty of never forgetting any fact bearing 
upon her one idea; and I remembered now that the con- 
versation with me about the will had produced on her an 
indelible impression of the Law’s surprising justice. Re- 
calling her naive admiration of the “just” law that re- 
quired no “paper” from a sister, I saw her casting loose 
the raging fate with a sanctimonious air. And Therese 
would naturally give the key of the fencing-room to her 
dear, virtuous, grateful, disinterested cousin, to that 


342 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


damned soul with delicate whiskers, because she would 
think it just possible that Rita might have locked the 
door leading from her room into the hall; whereas there 
was no earthly reason, not the slightest likelihood, that 
she would bother about the other. Righteousness 
demanded that the erring sister should be taken un- 
awares. 

All the above is the analysis of one short moment. 
Images are to words like light to sound — incomparably 
swifter. And all this was really one flash of light 
through my mind. A comforting thought succeeded it: 
that both doors were locked and that really there was 
no danger. 

However, there had been that noise — the why and 
the how of it.^ Of course in the dark he might have fallen 
into the bath, but that wouldn’t have been a faint noise. 
It wouldn’t have been a rattle. There was absolutely 
nothing he could knock over. He might have dropped a 
candle-stick if Therese had left him her own. That was 
possible, but then those thick mats — and then, anyway, 
why should he drop it; and, hang it all, why shouldn’t he 
have gone straight on and tried the door. I had sudden- 
ly a sickening vision of the fellow crouching at the key- 
hole, listening, listening, listening, for some movement or 
sigh of the sleeper he was ready to tear away from the 
world, alive or dead. I had a conviction that he was 
still listening. Why? Goodness knows! He may have 
been only gloating over the assurance that the night was 
long and that he had all these hours to himself. 

I was pretty certain that he could have heard nothing 
of our whispers, the room was too big for that and the 
door too solid. I hadn’t the same confidence in the eflS- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


343 


ciency of the lock. Still! . . . Guarding my lips 

with my hand I urged Dona Rita to go back to the sofa. 
She wouldn’t answer me and when I got hold of her arm 
I discovered that she wouldn’t move. She had taken 
root in that thick-pile Aubusson carpet; and she was so 
rigidly stiff all over that the brilliant stones in the shaft 
of the arrow of gold, with the six candles at the head of 
the sofa blazing full on them, emitted no sparkle. 

I was extremely anxious that she shouldn’t betray her- 
self. I reasoned, save the mark, as a psychologist. I 
had no doubt that the man knew of her being there; but 
he only knew it by hearsay. And that was bad enough. 
I could not help feeling that if he obtained some evidence 
for his senses by any sort of noise, voice, or movement, 
his madness would gain strength enough to burst the 
lock. I was rather ridiculously worried about the locks. 
A horrid mistrust of the whole house possessed me. I 
saw it in the light of a deadly trap. I had no weapon, I 
couldn’t say whether he had one or not. I wasn’t afraid 
of a struggle as far as I, myself, was concerned, but I 
was afraid of it for Dona Rita. To be rolling at her feet, 
locked in a literally tooth-and-nail struggle with Ortega 
would have been odious. I wanted to spare her feelings, 
just as I would have been anxious to save from any con- 
tact with mud the feet of that goatherd of the mountains 
with a symbolic face. I looked at her face. For immo- 
bility it might have been a carving. I wished I knew 
how to deal with that embodied mystery, to influence it, 
to manage it. Oh, how I longed for the gift of authority! 
In addition, since I had become completely sane, all my 
scruples against laying hold of her had returned. I felt 
shy and embarrassed. My eyes were flxed on the bronze 


344 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


handle of the fencing-room door as if it were something 
alive. I braced myself up against the moment when it 
would move. This was what was going to happen next. 
It would move very gently. My heart began to thump. 
But I was prepared to keep myself as still as death and I 
hoped Dona Rita would have sense enough to do the 
same. I stole another glance at her face and at that 
moment I heard the word: “Beloved!” form itself in 
the still air of the room, weak, distinct, piteous, like the 
last request of the dying. 

With great presence of mind I whispered into Dona 
Rita’s ear: “Perfect silence!” and was overjoyed to dis- 
cover that she had heard me, understood me; that she 
even had command over her rigid lips. She answered me 
in a breath (our cheeks were nearly touching): “Take 
me out of this house.” 

I glanced at all her clothing scattered about the room 
and hissed forcibly the warning “Perfect immobility”; 
noticing with relief that she didn’t offer to move, though 
animation was returning to her and her lips had re- 
mained parted in an awful, unintended effect of a 
smile. And I don’t know whether I was pleased when 
she, who was not to be touched, gripped my wrist sud- 
denly. It had the air of being done on purpose because 
almost instantly another: “Beloved!” louder, more ago- 
nized if possible, got into the room and, yes, went home 
to my heart. It was followed without any transition, 
preparation, or warning, by a positively bellowed: 
“Speak, perjured beast!” which I felt pass in a thrill right 
through Dona Rita like an electric shock, leaving her as 
motionless as before. 

Till he shook the door handle, which he did imme- 


345 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 

diatefy afterwards, I wasn’t certain through which door 
he had spoken. The two doors (in different walls) were 
rather near each other. It was as I expected. He was 
in the fencing-room, thoroughly aroused, his senses on the 
alert to catch the slightest sound. A situation not to be 
trifled with. Leaving the room was for us out of the 
question. It was quite possible for him to dash round 
into the hall before we could get clear of the front door. 
As to making a bolt of it upstairs there was the same ob- 
jection; and to allow ourselves to be chased all over the 
empty house by this maniac would have been mere folly. 
There was no advantage in locking ourselves up any- 
where upstairs where the original doors and locks were 
much lighter. No, true safety was in absolute stillness 
and silence, so that even his rage should be brought to 
doubt at last and die expended, or choke him before it 
died; I didn’t care which. 

For me to go out and meet him would have been stu- 
pid. Now I was certain that he was armed. I had re- 
membered the wall in the fencing-room decorated with 
trophies of cold steel, in all the civilized and savage 
forms; sheaves of assegais, in the guise of columns and 
grouped between them stars and suns of choppers, swords, 
knives; from Italy, from Damascus, from Abyssinia, from 
the ends of the world. Ortega had only to make his bar- 
barous choice. I suppose he had got up on the bench, 
and fumbling about amongst them must have brought one 
down, which, falling, had produced that rattling noise. 
But in any case to go to meet him would have been folly, 
because, after all, I might have been overpowered (even 
with bare hands) and then Dona Rita would have been 
left utterly defenceless. 


346 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“He will speak,” came to me the ghostly, terrified mur- 
mur of her voice. “Take me out of the house before he 
begins to speak.” 

“Keep still,” I whispered. “He will soon get tired of 
this.” 

“You don’t know him.” 

“Oh, yes, I do. Been with him two hours.” 

At this she let go my wrist and covered her face with 
her hands passionately. When she dropped them she had 
the look of one morally crushed. 

“What did he say to you?” 

“He raved.” 

“Listen to me. It was all true!” 

“I daresay, but what of that?” 

These ghostly words passed between us hardly louder 
than thoughts; but after my last answer she ceased and 
gave me a searching stare, then drew in a long breath. 
The voice on the other side of the door burst out with 
an impassioned request for a little pity, just a little, and 
went on begging for a few words, for two words, for one 
word — one poor little word. Then it gave up, then re- 
peated once more, “Say you are there, Rita. Say one 
word, just one word. Say ‘yes.’ Come! Just one little 
yes.” 

“You see,” I said. She only lowered her eyelids over 
the anxious glance she had turned on me. 

For a minute we could have had the illusion that he 
had stolen away, unheard, on the thick mats. But I 
don’t think that either of us was deceived. The voice 
returned, stammering words without connection, paus- 
ing and faltering, till suddenly steadied it soared into im- 
passioned entreaty, sank to low, harsh tones, voluble. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 347 

lofty sometimes and sometimes abject. When it paused 
it left us looking profoundly at each other. 

‘Tt’s almost comic/' I whispered. 

‘‘Yes. One could laugh/' she assented, with a sort of 
sinister conviction. Never had I seen her look exactly 
like that, for an instant another, an incredible Rita? 
“Haven't I laughed at him innumerable times?" she add- 
ed in a sombre whisper. 

He was muttering to himself out there, and unexpect- 
edly shouted: “What?" as though he had fancied he 
had heard something. He waited a while before he start- 
ed up again with a loud: “Speak up. Queen of the goats, 
with . your goat tricks. . . . " All was still for a 

time, then came a most awful bang on the door. He 
must have stepped back a pace to hurl himself bodily 
against the panels. The whole house seemed to shake. 
He repeated that performance once more, and then varied 
it by a prolonged drumming with his fists. It was comic. 
But I felt myself struggling mentally with an invading 
gloom as though I were no longer sure of myself. 

“Take me out," whispered Dona Rita feverishly, “take 
me out of this house before it is too late." 

“You will have to stand it," I answered. 

“So be it; but then you must go away yourself. Go 
now, before it is too late." 

I didn't condescend to answer this. The drumming on 
the panels stopped and the absurd thunder of it died out 
in the house. I don't know why precisely then I had the 
acute vision of the red mouth of Jose Ortega wriggling 
with rage between his funny whiskers. He began afresh 
but in a tired tone: 

“Do you expect a fellow to forget your tricks, ycu 


348 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


wicked little devil? Haven’t you ever seen me dodging 
about to get a sight of you amongst those pretty gentle- 
men, on horseback, like a princess, with pure cheeks like 
a carved saint? I wonder I didn’t throw stones at you. 
I wonder I didn’t run after you shouting the tale — curse 
my timidity! But I daresay they knew as much as I did. 
More. All the new tricks — if that were possible.” 

While he was making this uproar. Dona Rita put her 
fingers in her ears and then suddenly changed her mind 
and clapped her hands over my ears. Instinctively I dis- 
engaged my head but she persisted. We had a short tus- 
sle without moving from the spot, and suddenly I had 
my head free, and there was complete silence. He had 
screamed himself out of breath, but Dona Rita mutter- 
ing; “Too late, too late,”'|got her hands away from my 
grip and slipping altogether out of her fur coat seized 
some garment lying on a chair near by (I think it was 
her skirt), with the intention of dressing herself, I imag- 
ine, and rushing out of the house. Determined to pre- 
vent this, but indeed without thinking very much what I 
was doing, I got hold of her arm. That struggle was silent, 
too; but I used the least force possible and she managed 
to give me an unexpected push. Stepping back to save 
myself from falling I overturned the little table, bearing 
the six-branched candlestick. It hit the floor, rebounded 
with a dull ring on the carpet, and by the time it came 
to a rest every single candle was out. He on the other 
side of the door naturally heard the noise and greeted it 
with a triumphant screech: “Aha! I’ve managed to 
wake you up,” the very savagery of which had a laugh- 
able effect. I felt the weight of Doha Rita grow on my 
arm and thought it best to let her sink on the floor, wish- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


849 


ing to be free in my movements and really afraid 
that now he had actually heard her voice he would in- 
fallibly burst the door. But he didn’t even thump it. 
He seemed to have exhausted himself in that scream. 
There was no other light in the room but the darkened 
glow of the embers and I could hardly make out amongst 
the shadows of furniture Dona Rita sunk on her knees in 
a penitential and despairing attitude. Before this collapse 
I, who had been wrestling desperately with her a moment 
before, felt that I dare not touch her. This emotion, too, I 
could not understand; this abandonment of herself, this 
conscience-stricken humility. A humbly imploring request 
to open the door came from the other side. Ortega kept 
on repeating: “Open the door, open the door” in such an 
amazing variety of intonations, imperative, whining, per- 
suasive, insinuating, and even unexpectedly jocose, that I 
really stood there smiling to myself, yet with a gloomy 
and uneasy heart. Then he remarked, parenthetically as 
it were, “Oh you know how to torment a man, you 
brown-skinned, lean, grinning, dishevelled imp, you. And 
mark,” he expounded further, in a curiously doctoral 
tone — “you are in all your limbs hateful: your eyes are 
hateful and your mouth is hateful, and your hair is hate- 
ful, and your body is cold and vicious like a snake — 
and altogether you are perdition.” 

This statement was astonishingly deliberate. He drew 
a moaning breath after it and uttered in a heart-rending 
tone, “You know, Rita, that I cannot live without you. 
I haven’t lived. I am not living now. This isn’t life. 
Come, Rita, you can’t take a boy’s soul away and then 
let him grow up and go about the world, poor devil, while 
you go amongst the rich from one pair of arm^ to an-' 


350 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


other, showing all your best tricks. But I will forgive 
you if you only open the door,” he ended in an inflated 
tone: “You remember how you swore time after time to 
be my wife. You are more flt to be Satan’s wife but I 
don’t mind. You shall be my wife ! ” 

A sound near the floor made me bend down hastily 
with a stern: “Don’t laugh,” for in his grotesque, al- 
most burlesque discourses there seemed to me to be 
truth, passion, and horror enough to move a mountain. 

Suddenly suspicion seized him out there. With per- 
fectly farcical unexpectedness he yelled shrilly: “Oh, 
you deceitful wretch! You won’t escape me! I will 
have you. . . . ” 

And in a manner of speaking he vanished. Of course 
I couldn’t see him but somehow that was the impression. 
I had hardly time to receive it when crash! ... he was 
already at the other door. I suppose he thought that his 
prey was escaping him. His swiftness was amazing, 
almost inconceivable, more like the effect of a trick or 
of a mechanism. The thump on the door was awful as 
if he had not been able to stop himself in time. The shock 
seemed enough to stun an elephant. It was really funny. 
And after the crash there was a moment of silence as if 
he were recovering himself. The next thing was a low 
grunt, and at once he picked up the thread of his flxed 
idea. 

“You will have to be my wife. I have no shame. You 
swore you would be and so you will have to be.” Stifled 
low sounds made me bend down again to the kneeling 
form, white in the flush of the dark red glow. “For 
goodness sake don’t,” I whispered down. She was 
struggling with an appalling flt of merriment, repeating 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 


351 


to herself, ‘‘Yes, every day, for two months. Sixty times 
at least, sixty times at least.” Her voice was rising high. 
She was struggling against laughter, but when I tried to 
put my hand over her lips I felt her face wet with tears. 
She turned it this way and that eluding my hand with 
repressed low, little moans. I lost my caution and said, 
“Be quiet,” so sharply as to startle myself (and her, too) 
into expectant stillness. 

Ortega’s voice in the hall asked distinctly: “Eh? 
What’s this?” and then he kept still on his side listening, 
but he must have thought that his ears had deceived him. 
He was getting tired, too. He was keeping quiet out there 
— resting. Presently he sighed deeply; then in a harsh, 
melancholy tone he started again. 

“My love, my soul, my life, do speak to me. What am 
I that you should take so much trouble to pretend that 
you aren’t there? Do speak to me,” he repeated trem- 
ulously, following this mechanical appeal with a string of 
extravagantly endearing names, some of them quite 
childish, which all of a sudden stopped dead; and then 
after a pause there came a distinct, unutterably weary: 
“What shall I do now?” as though he were speaking to 
himself. 

I shuddered to hear rising from the floor, by my side, 
a vibrating, scornful: “Do! Why, slink off home looking 
over your shoulder as you used to years ago when I had 
done with you — all but the laughter.” 

“Rita,” I murmured, appalled. He must have been 
struck dumb for a moment. Then, goodness only knows 
why, in his dismay or rage he was moved to speak in 
French with a most ridiculous accent. 

“So you have found your tongue at last — Catini 


S52 THE ARROW OF GOLD 

You were that from the cradle. Don’t you remember 
how . 

Dona Rita sprang to her feet at my side with a loud 
cry, “No, George, no,” which bewildered me completely. 
The suddenness, the loudness of it made the ensuing silence 
on both sides of the door perfectly awful. It seemed to 
me that if I didn’t resist with all my might something in 
me would die on the instant. In the straight, falling 
folds of the night-dress she looked statuesque, gleaming, 
cold like a block of marble; while I, too, was turned into 
stone by the terrific clamour in the hall. 

“ Therese, Therese,” yelled Ortega. “ She has got a man 
in there.” He ran to the foot of the stairs and screamed 
again, “Therese, Therese! There is a man with her. 
A man! Come down, you miserable, starved peasant, 
come down and see.” 

I don’t know where Therese was but I am sure that this 
voice reached her, terrible, as if clamouring to heaven, 
and with a shrill over-note which made me certain that 
if she was in bed the only thing she would think of doing 
would be to put her head under the bed-clothes. With a 
final yell: “Come down and see,” he flew back at the 
door of the room and started shaking it violently. 

It was a double door, very tall, and there must have 
been a lot of things loose about its fittings, bolts, latches, 
and all those brass applications with broken screws, 
because it rattled, it clattered, it jingled; and produced 
also the sound as of thunder rolling in the big, empty hall. 
It was deafening, distressing, and vaguely alarming as 
if it could bring the house down. At the same time the 
futility of it had, it cannot be denied, a comic effect. 
The very magnitude of the racket he raised was funny. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


353 


But he couldn’t keep up that violent exertion contin- 
uously, and when he stopped to rest we could hear him 
shouting to himself in vengeful tones. He saw it all! 
He had been decoyed there! (Rattle, rattle, rattle.) 
He had been decoyed into that town, he screamed, getting 
more and more excited by the noise he made himself, in 
order to be exposed to this! (Rattle, rattle.) By this 
shameless “CatinI Catin! Catin!” 

He started at the door again with superhuman vigour. 

Behind me I heard Dona Rita laughing softly, status 
esque, turned all dark in the fading glow. I called out 
to her quite openly, “Do keep your self-control.” And 
she called back to me in a clear voice: “Oh, my dear, 
will you ever consent to speak to me after all this? But 
don’t ask for the impossible. He was born to be laughed 
at.” 

“Yes,” I cried. “But don’t let yourself go.” 

I don’t know whether Ortega heard us. He was exert- 
ing then his utmost strength of lung against the infamous 
plot to expose him to the derision of the fiendish associates 
of that obscene woman! . . . Then he began another 
interlude upon the door, so sustained and strong, that 
I had the thought that this was growing absurdly im- 
possible, that either the plaster would begin to fall off 
the ceiling or he would drop dead next moment, out there. 

He stopped, uttered a few curses at the door, and seemed 
calmer from sheer exhaustion. 

“This story will be all over the world,” we heard him 
begin. “Deceived, decoyed, inveighed, in order to be 
made a laughing-stock before the most debased of all man- 
kind, that woman and her associates.” This was really 
a meditation. And then he screamed: “I will kill you 


354 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


all.” Once more he started worrying the door but it was 
a startlingly feeble effort which he abandoned almost at 
once. He must have been at the end of his strength. 
Dona Rita from the middle of the room asked me reck- 
lessly loud: “Tell me! Wasn’t he born to be laughed at.^” 
I didn’t answer her. I was so near the door that I thought 
I ought to hear him panting there. He was terrifying, 
but he was not serious. He was at the end of his strength, 
of his breath, of every kind of endurance, but I did not 
know it. He was done up, finished; but perhaps he did 
not know it himself. How still he was! Just as I began 
to wonder at it, I heard him distinctly give a slap to his 
forehead. “I see it all!” he cried. “That miserable, 
canting peasant-woman upstairs has arranged it all. No 
doubt she consulted her priests. I must regain my self- 
respect. Let her die first.” I heard him make a dash for 
the foot of the stairs. I was appalled; yet to think of 
Therese being hoisted with her own petard was like a 
turn of affairs in a farce. A very ferocious farce. 
Instinctively I unlocked the door. Dona Rita’s contralto 
laugh rang out loud, bitter, and contemptuous; and I 
heard Ortega’s distracted screaming as if under torture. 
“It hurts! It hurts! It hurts!” I hesitated just an in- 
stant, half a second, no more, but before I could open 
the door wide there was in the hall a short groan and 
the sound of a heavy fall. 

The sight of Ortega lying on his back at the foot of the 
stairs arrested me in the doorway. One of his legs was 
drawn up, the other extended fully, his foot very near 
the pedestal of the silver statuette holding the feeble 
and tenacious gleam which made the shadows so heavy 
in that hall. One of his arms lay across his breast. The 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 355 

other arm was extended full length on the white-and- 
black pavement with the hand palm upwards and the 
fingers rigidly spread out. The shadow of the lowest 
step slanted across his face but one whisker and part 
of the chin could be made out. He appeared strangely 
flattened. He didn’t move at all. He was in his shirt- 
sleeves. I felt an extreme distaste for that sight. The 
characteristic sound of a key worrying in the lock was in 
my ears. I couldn’t locate it but I didn’t worry much 
about that at first. I was engaged in watching Senor 
Ortega. But for his raised leg he clung so flat to the floor 
and had taken on himself such a distorted shape that he 
might have been the mere shadow of Senor Ortega. It 
was rather fascinating to see him so quiet at the end of 
all that fury, clamour, passion, and uproar. Surely there 
was never anything so still in the world as this Ortega. 
I had a bizarre notion that he was not to be disturbed. 

A noise like the rattling of chain links, a small grind 
and click exploded in the stillness of the hall and a voice 
swore in Italian. These surprising sounds were quite 
welcome, they recalled me to myself, and I perceived they 
came from the front door which seemed pushed a little 
ajar. The astonished sort of swearing proceeded from the 
outside of the door. Was somebody trying to get in? I 
had no objection, I went to the door and said: “Wait 
a moment, it’s on the chain.” The deep voice on the other 
side said: “What an extraordinary thing,” and I assented 
mentally. It was extraordinary. The chain was never 
put up but Therese was a thorough sort of person and on 
this night she had put it up to keep no one out except 
myself. But it was the old Italian with his daughters 
returning from the ball who were trying to get in. 


S56 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


Suddenly I became intensely alive to the whole situa- 
tion. I bounded back, closed the door of Blunt’s room, and 
the next moment was speaking to the Italian. “A little 
patience.” My hands trembled but I managed to take 
down the chain and as I allowed the door to swing open a 
little more I put myself in his way. He was burly, ven- 
erable, a little indignant, and full of thanks. Behind him 
his two girls, in short-skirted costumes, white stockings, 
and low shoes, their heads powdered and earrings sparkling 
in their ears, huddled together behind their father, 
wrapped up in their light mantles. One had kept her little 
black mask on her face, the other had hers in her hand. 

The Italian was surprised at my blocking the way and 
remarked pleasantly, “It’s cold outside. Signor.” I said, 
“Yes,” and added in a hurried whisper: “There is a dead 
man in the hall.” He didn’t say a single word but put me 
aside a little, projected his body in for one searching 
glance. “Your daughters,” I murmured. He said kindly, 
“ Va bene, va bene.” And then to them, “Come in, girls.” 

There is nothing like dealing with a man who has had 
a long past of out-of-the-way experiences. The skill with 
which he rounded up and drove the girls across the hall, 
paternal and irresistible, venerable and reassuring, was 
a sight to see. They had no time for more than one scared 
look over the shoulder. He hustled them in and locked 
them up safely in their part of the house, then crossed 
the hall with a quick, practical stride. When near Senor 
Ortega he trod short just in time and said: “In truth, 
blood”; then selecting the place, knelt down by the body 
in his tall hat and respectable overcoat, his white beard 
giving him immense authority somehow. “But — this 
man is not dead,” he exclaimed, looking up at me. With 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


357 


profound sagacity, inherent as it were in his great beard, 
he never took the trouble to put any questions to me and 
seemed certain that I had nothing to do with the ghastly 
sight. “He managed to give himself an enormous gash 
in his side,” was his calm remark. “ And what a weapon !” 
he exclaimed, getting it out from under the body. It 
was an Abyssinian or Nubian production of a bizarre 
shape; the clumsiest thing imaginable, partaking of a 
sickle and a chopper with a sharp edge and a pointed end. 
A mere cruel-looking curio of inconceivable clumsiness to 
European eyes. 

The old man let it drop with amused disdain. “You 
had better take hold of his legs,” he decided without 
appeal. I certainly had no inclination to argue. WTien 
we lifted him up the head of Senor Ortega fell back deso- 
lately, making an awful, defenceless display of his large, 
white throat. 

We found the lamp burning in the studio and the bed 
made up on the couch on which we deposited our burden. 
My venerable friend jerked the upper sheet away at once 
and started tearing it into strips. 

“You may leave him to me,” said that eflficient sage, 
“but the doctor is your affair. If you don’t want this 
business to make a noise you will have to find a discreet 
man.” 

He was most benevolently interested in all the pro- 
ceedings. He remarked with a patriarchal smile as he 
tore the sheet noisily: “You had better not lose any 
time.” I didn’t lose any time. I crammed into the next 
hour an astonishing amount of bodily activity. Without 
more words I flew out bare-headed into the last night of 
Carnival. Luckily I was certain of the right sort of 


358 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


doctor. He was an iron-grey man of forty and of a stout 
habit of body but who was able to put on a spurt. In 
the cold, dark, and deserted by-streets, he ran with earnest 
and ponderous foot-steps, which echoed loudly in the cold 
night air, while I skimmed along the ground a pace or two 
in front of him. It was only on arriving at the house that 
I perceived that I had left the front door wide open. All 
the town, every evil in the world could have entered the 
black-and-white hall. But I had no time to meditate upon 
my imprudence. The doctor and I worked in silence for 
nearly an hour and it was only then while he was washing 
his hands in the fencing-room that he asked: 

“What was he up to, that imbecile?” 

“Oh, he was examining this curiosity,” I said. 

“Oh, yes, and it accidentally went off,” said the doctor, 
looking contemptuously at the Nubian knife I had 
thrown on the table. Then while wiping his hands: “I 
would bet there is a woman somewhere under this; but that 
of course does not affect the nature of the wound. I hope 
this blood-letting will do him good.” 

“Nothing will do him any good,” I said. 

“Curious house this,” went on the doctor. “It belongs 
to a curious sort of woman, too. I happened to see 
her once or twice. I shouldn’t wonder if she were to 
raise considerable trouble in the track of her pretty feet 
as she goes along. I believe you know her well.” 

“Yes.” 

“Curious people in the house, too. There was a Carlist 
oflScer here, a lean, tall, dark man, who couldn’t sleep. 
He consulted me once. Do you know what became of 
him?” 

“No.” 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 359 

The doctor had finished wiping his hands and flung 
the towel far away. 

“Considerable nervous over-strain. Seemed to have 
a restless brain. Not a good thing, that. For the rest a 
perfect gentleman. And this Spaniard here, do you 
know him?” 

“Enough not to care what happens to him,” I said, 
except for the trouble he might cause to the Carlist 
feympathizers here, should the police get hold of this 
affair.” 

“Well, then, he must take his chance in the seclusion 
of that conservatory sort of place where you have put him. 
I’ll try to find somebody we can trust to look after him. 
Meantime, I will leave the case to you.” 


VIII 


D irectly I had shut the door after the doctor 
I started shouting for Therese. “Come down 
at once, you wretched hypocrite,” I yelled at the 
foot of the stairs in a sort of frenzy as though I had been 
a second Ortega. Not even an echo answered me; but 
all of a sudden a small flame flickered descending from the 
upper darkness and Therese appeared on the first-floor 
landing carrying a lighted candle in front of a livid, hard 
face, closed against remorse, compassion, or mercy by the 
meanness of her righteousness and of her rapacious 
instincts. She was fully dressed in that abominable 
brown stuff with motionless folds, and as I watched her 
coming down step by step she might have been made of 
wood. I stepped back and pointed my finger at the dark- 
ness of the passage leading to the studio. She passed 
within a foot of me, her pale eyes staring straight ahead, 
her face still with disappointment and fury. Yet it is 
only my surmise. She might have been made thus in- 
human by the force of an invincible purpose. I waited 
a moment, then, stealthily, with extreme caution, I 
opened the door of the so-called. Captain Blunt’s room. 

The glow of embers was all but out. It was cold and 
dark in there; but before I closed the door behind me the 
dim light from the hall showed me Dona Rita standing on 
the very same spot where I had left her, statuesque in 
her night-dress. Even after I shut the door she loomed up 
enormous, indistinctly rigid and inanimate- I picked up 
m 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


861 


the candelabra, groped for a candle all over the carpet, 
found one, and lighted it. All that time Dofia Rita didn’t 
stir. When I turned towards her she seemed to be slowly 
awakening from a trance. She was deathly pale and by 
contrast the melted, sapphire-blue of her eyes looked black 
as coal. They moved a little in my direction, incurious, 
recognizing me slowly. But when they had recognized 
me completely she raised her hands and hid her face in 
them. A whole minute or more passed. Then I said in 
a low tone: “Look at me,” and she let them fall slowly 
as if accepting the inevitable. 

“Shall I make up the fire?” . . . I waited. “Do you 
hear me?” She made no sound and with the tip of my 
finger I touched her bare shoulder. But for its elas- 
ticity it might have been frozen. At once I looked round 
for the fur coat; it seemed to me that there was not a 
moment to lose if she was to be saved, as though we 
had been lost on an Arctic plain. I had to put her 
arms into the sleeves, myself, one after another. They 
were cold, lifeless, but fiexible. Then I moved in front 
of her and buttoned the thing close round her throat. 
To do that I had actually to raise her chin with my finger, 
and it sank slowly down again. I buttoned all the other 
buttons right down to the ground. It was a very long 
and splendid fur. Before rising from my kneeling position 
I felt her feet. Mere ice. The intimacy of this sort of 
attendance helped the growth of my authority. “Lie 
down,” I murmured, “I shall pile on you every blanket 
I can find here,” but she only shook her head. 

Not even in the days when she ran “shrill as a cicada 
and thin as a match” through the chill mists of her native 
mountains could she ever have felt so cold, so wretched. 


862 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


and so desolate. Her very soul, her grave, indignant, 
and fantastic soul, seemed to drowse like an exhausted 
traveller surrendering himself to the sleep of death. But 
when I asked her again to lie down she managed to answer 
me, “Not in this room.” The dumb spell was broken. 
She turned her head from side to ^de, but oh! how cold 
she was! It seemed to come out of her, numbing me, too; 
and the very diamonds on the arrow of gold sparkled 
like hoar frost in the light of the one candle. 

“Not in this room; not here,” she protested, with that 
peculiar suavity of tone which made her voice unfor- 
gettable, irresistible, no matter what she said. “Not 
after all this! I couldn’t close my eyes in this place. It’s 
full of corruption and ugliness all round, in me, too, 
everywhere except in your heart, which has nothing to 
do where I breathe. And here you may leave me. But 
wherever you go remember that I am not evil, I am not 
evil.” 

I said: “I don’t intend to leave you here. There is 
my room upstairs. You have been in it before.” 

“Oh, you have heard of that,” she whispered. The 
beginning of a wan smile vanished from her lips. 

“I also think you can’t stay in this room; and, surely, 
you needn’t hesitate . . 

“No. It doesn’t matter now. He has killed me. 
Rita is dead.” 

While we exchanged these words I had retrieved the 
quilted, blue slippers and had put them on her feet. She 
was very tractable. Then taking her by the arm I led 
her towards the door. 

“He has killed me,” she repeated in a sigh. “The 
little joy that was in me.” 


363 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 

“He has tried to kill himself out there in the hall,” 
I said. She put back like a frightened child but she 
couldn’t be dragged on as a child can be. 

I assured her that the man was no longer there but she 
only repeated, “I can’t get through the hall. I can’t 
walk. I can’t . . .” 

“Well,” I said, flinging the door open and seizing her 
suddenly in my arms, “if you can’t walk then you shall 
be carried,” and I lifted her from the ground so abruptly 
that she could not help catching me round the neck as 
any child almost will do instinctively when you pick it 
up. 

I ought really to have put those blue slippers in my 
pocket. One dropped off at the bottom of the stairs as 
I was stepping over an unpleasant looking mess on the 
marble pavement, and the other was lost a little way up 
the flight when, for some reason (perhaps from a sense of 
insecurity), she began to struggle. Though I had an odd 
sense of being engaged in a sort of nursery adventure 
she was no child to carry. I could just do it. But not 
if she chose to struggle. I set her down hastily and only 
supported her round the waist for the rest of the way. 
My room, of course, was perfectly dark but I led her 
straight to the sofa at once and let her fall on it. Then as 
if I had in sober truth rescued her from an Alpine height 
or an Arctic floe, I busied myself exclusively with lighting 
the gas and starting the fire. I didn’t even pause to lock 
my door. All the time I was aware of her presence be- 
hind me, nay, of something deeper and more my own — of 
her existence itself — of a small blue flame, blue like her 
eyes, flickering and clear within her frozen body. When 
I turned to her she was sitting very stiff and upright. 


S64 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


with her feet posed hieratically on the carpet and her head 
emerging out of the ample fur collar, such as a gem-like 
flower above the rim of a dark vase. I tore the blankets 
and the pillows off my bed and piled them up in readiness 
in a great heap on the floor near the couch. My reason 
for this was that the room was large, too large for the 
fireplace, and the couch was nearest to the fire. She gave 
no sign but one of her wistful attempts at a smile. In 
a most businesslike way I took the arrow out of her hair 
and laid it on the centre table. The tawny mass fell 
loose at once about her shoulders and made her look 
even more desolate than before. But there was an in- 
vincible need of gaiety in her heart. She said funnily, 
looking at the arrow sparkling in the gas light: 

“Ah! That poor Philistinish ornament!” 

An echo of our early days, not more innocent but so 
much more youthful, was in her tone; and we both, as if 
touched with poignant regret, looked at each other with 
enlightened eyes. 

“Yes,” I said, “how far away all this is. And you 
wouldn’t leave even that object behind when you came 
last in here. Perhaps it is for that reason it haunted me 
— mostly at night. I dreamed of you sometimes as a 
huntress nymph gleaming white through the foliage and 
throwing this arrow like a dart straight at my heart. But 
it never reached it. It always fell at my feet as I woke 
up. The huntress never meant to strike down that par- 
ticular quarry.” 

“The huntress was wild but she was not evil. And 
she was no nymph, but only a goatherd girl. Dream of 
her no more, my dear.” 

I had the strength of mind to make a sign of assent and 


865 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 

busied myself arranging a couple of pillows at one end of 
the sofa. “Upon my soul, goatherd, you are not respon- 
sible,” I said. “You are not! Lay down that uneasy 
head,” I continued, forcing a half-playful note into my 
immense sadness, “that has even dreamed of a crown — 
but not for itself.” 

She lay down quietly. I covered her up, looked once 
into her eyes and felt the restlessness of fatigue over- 
power me so that I wanted to stagger out, walk straight 
before me, stagger on and on till I dropped. In the end 
I lost myself in thought. I woke with a start to her 
voice saying positively: 

“No. Not even in this room. I can’t close my eyes. 
Impossible. I have a horror of myself. That voice in 
my ears. All true. All true.” 

She was sitting up, two masses of tawny hair fell on 
each side of her tense face. I threw away the pillows 
from which she had risen and sat down behind her on the 
couch. “Perhaps like this,” I suggested, drawing her 
head gently on my breast. She didn’t resist, she didn’t 
even sigh, she didn’t look at me or attempt to settle her- 
self in any way. It was I who settled her after taking 
up a position which I thought I should be able to keep 
for hours — for ages. After a time I grew composed 
enough to become aware of the ticking of the clock, even 
to take pleasure in it. The beat recorded the moments 
of her rest, while I sat, keeping as still as if my life de- 
pended upon it with my eyes fixed idly on the arrow of 
gold gleaming and glittering dimly on the table under 
the lowered gas-jet. And presently my breathing fell 
into the quiet rhythm of the sleep which descended on 
her at last. My thought was that now nothing mat- 


366 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


tered in the world because I had the world safe resting 
in my arms — or was it in my heart? 

Suddenly my heart seemed torn in two within my 
breast and half of my breath knocked out of me. It was 
a tumultuous awakening. The day had come. Dona 
Rita had opened her eyes, found herself in my arms, and 
instantly had flung herself out of them with one sudden 
effort. I saw her already standing in the Altered sun- 
shine of the closed shutters, with all the childlike horror 
and shame of that night vibrating afresh in the awakened 
body of the woman. 

“Daylight,” she whispered in an appalled voice. 
“Don’t look at me, George. I can’t face daylight. No 
— not with you. Before we set eyes on each other all 
that past was like nothing. I had crushed it all in my 
new pride. Nothing could touch the Rita whose hand 
was kissed by you. But now! Never in daylight.” 

I sat there stupid with surprise and grief. This was no 
longer the adventure of venturesome children in a nur- 
sery-book. A grown man’s bitterness, informed, suspi- 
cious, resembling hatred, welled out of my heart. 

“All this means that you are going to desert me 
again?” I said with contempt. “All right. I won’t 
throw’! stones after you . . . Are you going 

then?” 

She lowered her head slowly with a backward gesture 
of her arm as if to keep me off, for I had sprung to my 
feet all at once as if mad. 

“Then go quickly,” I said. “You are afraid of living 
flesh and blood. What are you running after? Honesty, 
as you say, or some distinguished carcass to feed your 
vanity on? I know how cold you can be — and yet live. 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


367 


What have I done to you? You go to sleep in my arms, 
wake up and go away. Is it to impress me? Charlatan- 
ism of character, my dear.” 

She stepped forward on her bare feet as firm on that 
floor which seemed to heave up and down before my eyes 
as she had ever been, a goatherd child leaping on the 
rocks of her native hills which she was never to see 
again. I snatched the arrow of gold from the table and 
threw it after her. 

‘Don’t forget this thing,” I cried, “you would never 
forgive yourself for leaving it behind.” 

It struck the back of the fur coat and fell on the floor 
behind her. She never looked round. She walked to the 
door, opened it without haste, and on the landing in the 
diffused light from the ground-glass skylight there ap- 
peared, rigid, like an implacable and obscure fate, the awful 
Therese — waiting for her sister. The heavy ends of a 
big black shawl thrown over her head hung massively in 
biblical folds. With a faint cry of dismay Dona Rita 
stopped just within my room. 

The two women faced each other for a few moments 
silently. Therese spoke first. There was no austerity in 
her tone. Her voice was as usual, pertinacious, unfeel- 
ing, with a slight plaint in it; terrible in its unchanged 
purpose. 

“I have been standing here before this door all night,” 
she said. “I don’t know how I lived through it. I 
thought I would die a hundred times for shame. So 
that’s how you are spending your time? You are worse 
than shameless. But God may still forgive you. You 
have a soul. You are my sister. I will never abandon 
you ^ ^ill you die.” 


368 


THE ARROW OP GOIJ> 

“What is it?” Dona Rita was heard wistfully, “my soul 
or this house that you won’t abandon.” 

“Come out and bow your head in humiliation. I am 
your sister and I shall help you to pray to God and all 
the Saints. Come away from that poor young gentleman 
who like all the others ean have nothing but contempt 
and disgust for you in his heart. Come and hide your 
head where no one will reproach you — but I, your sister. 
Come out and beat your breast: come, poor Sinner, and 
let me kiss you, for you are my sister!” 

While Therese was speaking Dona Rita stepped back 
a pace and as the other moved forward still extending 
the hand of sisterly love, she slammed the door in Therese’s 
face. “You abominable girl!” she cried fiercely. Then 
she turned about and walked towards me who had not 
moved. I felt hardly alive but for the cruel pain that 
possessed my whole being. On the way she stooped to 
pick up the arrow of gold and then moved on quicker, 
holding it out to me in her open palm. 

“You thought I wouldn’t give it to you. Amigo, I 
wanted nothing so much as to give it to you. And now, 
perhaps — you will take it.” 

“Not without the woman,” I said sombrely. 

“Take it,” she said. “I haven’t the courage to deliver 
myself up to Therese. No. Not even for your sake. 
Don’t you think I have been miserable enough yet?” 

I snatched the arrow out of her hand then and ridicu- 
lously pressed it to my breast; but as I opened my lips 
she who knew what was struggling for utterance in my 
heart cried in a ringing tone: 

“Speak no words of love, George! Not yet. Not in 
this house of ill-luck and falsehood. Not within a hun- 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


369 


dred miles of this house, where they came clinging to me 
all profaned from the mouth of that man. Haven’t you 
heard them — the horrible things.^ And what can words 
have to do between you and me?” 

Her hands were stretched out imploringly. I said, 
childishly disconcerted : 

“But, Rita, how can I help using words of love to you? 
They come of themselves on my lips!” 

“They come! Ah! But I shall seal your lips with the 
thing itself,” she said. “Like this. . . 


SECOND NOTE 


The narrative of our man goes on for some six months 
more, from this, the last night of the Carnival season up 
to and beyond the season of roses. The tone of it is much 
less of exultation than might have been expected. Love 
as is well known having nothing to do with reason, being 
insensible to forebodings and even blind to evidence, the 
surrender of those two beings to a precarious bliss has 
nothing very astonishing in itself; and its portrayal, as 
he attempts it, lacks dramatic interest. The sentimental 
interest could only have a fascination for readers them- 
selves actually in love. The response of a reader de- 
pends on the mood of the moment, so much so that a 
book may seem extremely interesting when read late at 
night, but might appear merely a lot of vapid verbiage in 
the morning. My conviction is that the mood in which 
the continuation of his story would appear sympathetic 
is very rare. This consideration has induced me to sup- 
press it — all but the actual facts which round up the 
previous events and satisfy such curiosity as might have 
been aroused by the narrative. 

It is to be remarked that this period is charac- 
terized more by a deep and joyous tenderness than by 
sheer passion. All fierceness of spirit seems to have 
burnt itseK out in their preliminary hesitations and strug- 
gles against each other and themselves. Whether love 
in its entirety has, speaking generally, the same elemen- 
tary meaning for women as for men, is very doubtful. 

870 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


371 


Civilization has been at work there. But the fact is that 
those two display, in every phase of discovery and re- 
sponse, an exact accord. Both show themselves amaz- 
ingly ingenuous in the practice of sentiment. I believe 
that those who know women won’t be surprised to hear 
me say that she was as new to love as he was. During 
their retreat in the region of the Maritime Alps, in a small 
house built of dry stones and embowered with roses, they 
appear all through to be less like released lovers than as 
companions who had foimd out each other’s fitness in 
a specially intense way. Upon the whole, I think that there 
must be some truth in his insistence of there having always 
been something childlike in their relation. In the imre- 
served and instant sharing of aU thoughts, all impressions, 
all sensations, we see the naiveness of a children’s foolhardy 
adventure. This unreserve expressed for him the whole 
truth of the situation. With her it may have been differ- 
ent. It might have been assumed; yet nobody is alto- 
gether a comedian; and even comedians themselves have 
got to believe in the part they play. Of the two she 
appears much the more assured and confident. But if 
in this she was a comedienne then it was but a great 
achievement of her ineradicable honesty. Having once 
renounced her honourable scruples she took good care 
that he should taste no flavour of misgivings in the cup. 
Being older it was she who imparted its character to the 
situation. As to the man if he had any superiority of his 
own it was simply the superiority of him who loves with 
the greater self -surrender. 

This is what appears from the pages I have discreetly 
suppressed — partly out of regard for the pages them- 
selves. In every, even terrestrial, mystery there is as 


372 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 

it were a sacred core. A sustained commentary on love 
is not fit for every eye. A universal experience is exactly 
the sort of thing which is most difficult to appraise justly 
in a particular instance. 

How this particular instance affected Rose, who was the 
only companion of the two hermits in their rose-embow- 
ered hut of stones, I regret not to be able to report; but 
I will venture to say that for reasons on which I need 
not enlarge, the girl could not have been very reassured 
by what she saw. It seems to me that her devotion could 
never be appeased; for the conviction must have been 
growing on her that, no matter what happened, Madame 
could never have any friends. It may be that Dofia 
Rita had given her a glimpse of the unavoidable end, 
and that the girl’s tarnished eyes masked a certain 
amount of apprehensive, helpless desolation. 

What meantime was becoming of the fortune of Henry 
Allegre is another curious question. We have been told 
that it was too big to be tied up in a sack and thrown 
into the sea. That part of it represented by the fabulous 
collections was still being protected by the police. But 
for the rest, it may be assumed that its power and signifi- 
cance were lost to an interested world for something like 
six months. What is certain is that the late Henry 
Allegre’s man of affairs found himself comparatively idle. 
The holiday must have done much good to his harassed 
Drain. He had received a note from Dona Rita saying 
that she had gone into retreat and that she did not mean 
to send him her address, not being m the humour to be 
worried with letters on any subject whatever. “It’s 
enough for you” — she wrote — “to know that I am 
alive.” Later, at irregular intervals, he received scraps 


373 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 

of paper bearing the stamps of various post oflSces and 
containing the simple statement: “I am still alive,” 
signed with an enormous, flourished, exuberant R. I 
imagine Rose had to travel some distances by rail to 
post those messages. A thick veil of secrecy had been 
lowered between the world and the lovers; yet even this 
veil turned out not altogether impenetrable. 

He — it would be convenient to call him Monsieur 
George to the end — shared with Dona Rita her perfect 
detachment from all mundane affairs; but he had to 
make two short visits to Marseilles. The first was prompt- 
ed by his loyal affection for Dominic. He wanted to 
discover what had happened or was happening to Dominic 
and to find out whether he could do something for that 
man. But Dominic was not the sort of person for whom 
one can do much. Monsieur George did not even see 
him. It looked uncommonly as if Dominic’s heart were 
broken. Monsieur George remained concealed for twenty- 
four hoiurs in the very house in which Madame Lwnore 
had her cafe. He spent most of that time in conversing 
with Madame Lwnore about Dominic. She was dis- 
tressed, but her mind was made up. That bright-eyed, 
nonchalant, and passionate woman was making arrange- 
ments to dispose of her cafe before departing to join 
Dominic. She would not say where. Having ascertained 
that his assistance was not required Monsieur George, 
in his own words, “managed to sneak out of the town 
without being seen by a single soul that mattered.” 

The second occasion was very prosaic and shockingly 
incongruous with the super-mundane colouring of these 
days. He had neither the fortune of Henry Allegre nor 
a man of affairs of his own. But some rent had to be p»»id 


374 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


to somebody for the stone hut and Rose could not go 
marketing in the tiny hamlet at the foot of the hill without 
a little money. There came a time when Monsieur 
George had to descend from the heights of his love in order, 
in his own words, “to get a supply of cash.” As he had 
disappeared very suddenly and completely for a time from 
the eyes of mankind it was necessary that he should 
show himself and sign some papers. That business was 
transacted in the office of the banker mentioned in the 
story. Monsieur George wished to avoid seeing the man 
himself but in this he did not succeed. The interview 
was short. The banker naturally asked no questions, 
made no allusions to persons and events, and didn’t even 
mention the great Legitimist Principle which presented 
to him now no interest whatever. But for the moment 
all the world was talking of the Carlist enterprise. It 
had collapsed utterly, leaving behind, as usual, a large 
crop of recriminations, charges of incompetency and 
treachery, and a certain amount of scandalous gossip. 
The banker (his wife’s salon had been very Carlist indeed) 
declared that he had never believed in the success of the 
cause. “You are well out of it,” he remarked with a 
chilly smile to Monsieur George. The latter merely 
observed that he had been very little “in it” as a matter 
of fact, and that he was quite indifferent to the whole 
affair. 

“You left a few of your feathers in it, nevertheless,” 
the banker concluded with a wooden face and with the 
curtness of a man who knows. 

Monsieur George ought to have taken the very next 
train out of the town but he yielded to the temptation to 
discover what had happened to the house in the street 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


375 


of the Consuls after he and Doha Rita had stolen out of 
it like two scared yet jubilant children. All he discovered 
was a strange, fat woman, a sort of virago, who had, 
apparently, been put in as a caretaker by the man of 
affairs. She made some diflficulties to admit that she had 
been in charge for the last four months; ever since the 
person who was there before had eloped with some 
Spaniard who had been lying in the house ill with fever 
for more than six weeks. No, she never saw the person. 
Neither had she seen the Spaniard. She had only heard the 
talk of the street. Of course she didn’t know where these 
people had gone. She manifested some impatience to get 
rid of Monsieur George and even attempted to push him to- 
wards the door. It was, he says, a very funny experience. 
He noticed the feeble flame of the gas-jet in the hall still 
waiting for extinction in the general collapse of the 
world. 

Then he decided to have a bit of dinner at the Restau- 
rant de la Gare where he fel^^pretty certain he would 
not meet any of his friends. He could not have asked 
Madame Leonore for hospitality because Madame Leonore 
had gone away already. His acquaintances were not 
the sort of people likely to happen casually into a restau- 
rant of that kind and moreover he took the precaution to 
seat himself at a small table so as to face the wall. Yet 
before long he felt a hand laid gently on his shoulder, 
and, looking up, saw one of his acquaintances, a member 
of the Royalist club, a young man of a very cheerful dis- 
position but whose face looked down at him with a grave 
and anxious expression. 

Monsieur George was far from delighted. His surprise 
was extreme when in the course of the first phrases ex- 


376 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


changed with him he learned that this acquaintance had 
come to the station with the hope of finding him there. 

“You haven’t been seen for some time,” he said. “You 
were perhaps somewhere where the news from the world 
couldn’t reach you? There have been many changes 
amongst our friends and amongst people one used to hear 
of so much. There is Madame de Lastaola for instance, 
who seems to have vanished from the world which was 
so much interested in her. You have no idea where she 
may be now?” 

Monsieur George remarked grumpily that he couldn’t 
say. 

The other tried to appear at ease. T ongues were wagging 
about it in Paris. There was a sort of international 
financier, a fellow with an Italian name, a shady per- 
sonality, who had been looking for her all over Europe 
and talked in clubs — astonishing how such fellows get 
into the best clubs — oh! Azzolati was his name. But 
perhaps what a fellow like that said did not matter. The 
funniest thing was that there was no man of any position 
in the world who had disappeared at the same time. A 
friend in Paris wrote to him that a certain well-known 
journalist had rushed South to investigate the mystery 
but had returned no wiser than he went. 

Monsieur George remarked more unamiably than be- 
fore that he really could not help all that. 

“No,” said the other with extreme gentleness, “only 
of all the people more or less connected with the Carlist 
affair you are the only one that had also disappeared be- 
fore the final collapse.” 

“What!” cried Monsieur George. 

“Just so,” said the other meaningly. “You know that 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


877 


all my people like you very much, though they hold 
various opinions as to your discretion. Only the other 
day Jane, you know my married sister, and I were talking 
about you. She was extremely distressed. I assured her 
that you must be very far away or very deeply buried 
somewhere not to have given a sign of life under this 
provocation.” 

Naturally Monsieur George wanted to know what it 
was all about; and the other appeared greatly relieved. 

‘T was sure you couldn’t have heard. I don’t want 
to be indiscreet, I don’t want to ask you where you were. 
It came to my ears that you had been seen at the bank 
to-day and I made a special effort to lay hold of you 
before you vanished again; for, after all, we have been 
always good friends and all our lot here liked you very 
much. Listen. You know a certain Captain Blunt, 
don’t you?” 

Monsieur George owned to knowing Captain Blunt 
but only very slightly. His friend then informed him that 
this Captain Blunt was apparently well acquainted with 
Madame de Lastaola, or, at any rate, pretended to be. 
He was an honourable man, a member of a good club, 
he was very Parisian in a way, and all this, he continued, 
made all the worse that of which he was under the pain- 
ful necessity of warning Monsieur George. This Blunt 
on three distinct occasions when the name of Madame de 
Lastaola came up in conversation in a mixed company 
of men had expressed his regret that she should have be- 
come the prey of a young adventurer who was exploiting 
her shamelessly. He talked like a man certain of his facts 
and as he mentioned names. . . . 

“In fact,” the young man burst out excitedly, “it is 


378 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


your name that he mentions. And in order to fix the exact 
personality he always takes care to add that you are 
that young fellow who was known as Monsieur George 
all over the South amongst the initiated Carlists.” 

How Blunt had got enough information to base that 
atrocious calumny upon, Monsieur George couldn’t 
imagine. But there it was. He kept silent in his indig- 
nation till his friend murmured, “I expect you will want 
him to know that you are here.” 

“Yes,” said Monsieur George, “and I hope you will 
consent to act for me altogether. First of all, pray, let him 
know by wire that I am waiting for him. This will be 
enough to fetch him down here, I can assure you. You 
may ask him also to bring two friends with him. I don’t 
intend this to be an affair for Parisian journalists to write 
paragraphs about.” 

“Yes. That sort of thing must be stopped at once,” 
the other admitted. He assented to Monsieur George’s 
request that the meeting should be arranged for at his 
elder brother’s country place where the family stayed 
very seldom. There was a most convenient walled 
garden there. And then Monsieur George caught his 
train promising to be back on the fourth day and leaving 
all further arrangements to his friend. He prided himself 
on his impenetrability before Dona Rita; on the happiness 
without a shadow of those four days. However, Dona 
Rita must have had the intuition of there being something 
in the wind, because on the evening of the very same day 
on which he left her again on some pretence or other, 
she was already ensconced in the house in the street of 
the Consuls, with the trustworthy Rose scouting all over 
the town to gain information. 


379 


THE ARROW OP GOLD 

Of the proceedings in the walled garden there is no need 
to speak in detail. They were conventionally correct, 
but an earnestness of purpose which could be felt in the 
very air lifted the business above the common run of 
affairs of honour. One bit of byplay unnoticed by the 
seconds, very busy for the moment with their arrange- 
ments, must be mentioned. Disregarding the severe 
rules of conduct in such cases Monsieur George approached 
his adversary and addressed him directly. 

“Captain Blunt,” he said, “the result of this meeting 
may go against me. In that case you will recognize 
publicly that you were wrong. For you are wrong and 
you know it. May I trust your honour?” 

In answer to that appeal Captain Blunt, always correct, 
didn’t open his lips but only made a little bow. For the 
rest he was perfectly ruthless. If he was utterly incapable 
of being carried away by love there was nothing equivocal 
about his jealousy. Such psychology is not very rare and 
really from the point of view of the combat itself one 
cannot very well blame him. What happened was this. 
Monsieur George fired on the word and, whether luck or 
skill, managed to hit Captain Blunt in the upper part 
of the arm which was holding the pistol. That gentle- 
man’s arm dropped powerless by his side. But he did not 
drop his weapon. There was nothing equivocal about his 
determination. With the greatest deliberation he reached 
with his left hand for his pistol and taking careful aim 
shot Monsieur George through the left side of his breast. 
One may imagine the consternation of the four seconds and 
the activity of the two surgeons in the confined, drowsy 
heat of that walled garden. It was within an easy drive 
of the town and as Monsieur George was being conveyed 


880 THE ARROW OP GOLD 

there at a walking pace a little brougham coming from the 
opposite direction pulled up at the side of the road. A 
thickly veiled woman’s head looked out of the window, 
took in the state of affairs at a glance, and called out in 
a firm voice : “Follow my carriage.” The brougham turn- 
ing round took the lead. Long before this convoy reached 
the town another carriage containing four gentlemen (of 
whom one was leaning back languidly with his arm in a 
sling) whisked past and vanished ahead in a cloud of white, 
Provencal dust. And this is the last appearance of Cap- 
tain Blunt in Monsieur George’s narrative. Of course 
he was only told of it later. At the time he was not in a 
condition to notice things. His interest in his surroundings 
remained of a hazy and nightmarish kind for many days 
together. From time to time he had the impression that 
he was in a room strangely familiar to him, that he had 
unsatisfactory visions of Dona Rita, to whom he tried 
to speak as if nothing had happened, but that she always 
put her hand on his mouth to prevent him and then spoke 
to him herself in a very strange voice which sometimes 
resembled the voice of Rose. The face, too, sometimes 
resembled the face of Rose. There were also one or two 
men’s faces which he seemed to know well enough though 
he didn’t recall their names. He could have done so with 
a slight effort, but it would have been too much trouble. 
Then came a time when the hallucinations of Dona Rita 
and the faithful Rose left him altogether. Next came a 
period, perhaps a year, or perhaps an hour, during which 
he seemed to dream all through his past life. He felt no 
apprehension, he didn’t try to speculate as to the future. 
He felt that all possible conclusions were out of his power, 
and therefore he was indifferent to everything. He was 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 381 

like that dream’s disinterested spectator who doesn’t 
know what is going to happen next. Suddenly for the first 
time in his life he had the soul-satisfying consciousness 
of floating off into deep slumber. 

When he woke up after an hour, or a day, or a month, 
there was dusk in the room; but he recognized it per- 
fectly. It was his apartment in Dona Rita’s house; those 
were the familiar surroundings in which he had so often 
told himself that he must either die or go mad. But 
now he felt perfectly clear-headed and the full sensation 
of being alive came all over him, languidly delicious. The 
greatest beauty of it was that there was no need to move. 
This gave him a sort of moral satisfaction. Then the first 
thought independent of personal sensations came into his 
head. He wondered when Therese would come in and 
begin talking. He saw vaguely a human figure in the 
room but that was a man. He was speaking in a dead- 
ened voice which had yet a preternatural distinctness. 

‘‘This is the second case I have had in this house, and 
I am sure that directly or indirectly it was connected with 
that woman. She will go on like this leaving a track be- 
hind her and then some day there will be really a corpse. 
This young fellow might have been it.” 

‘Tn this case. Doctor,” said another voice, “one can’t 
blame the woman very much. I assure you she made a 
very determined fight.” 

“What do you mean? That she didn’t want to . . .” 

“Yes. A very good fight. I heard all about it. It is 
easy to blame her, but, as she asked me despairingly, could 
she go through life veiled from head to foot or go out 
of it altogether into a convent? No, she isn’t guilty. She 
is simply — what she is.” 


m THE ABROW OP GOLD 

“And what’s that?” 

“Very much of a woman. Perhaps a little more at the 
mercy of contradictory impulses than other women. But 
that’s not her fault. I really think she has been very 
honest.” 

The voices sank suddenly to a still lower murmur and 
presently the shape of the man went out of the room. 
Monsieur George heard distinctly the door open and shut. 
Then he spoke for the first time, discovering, with a par- 
ticular pleasure, that it was quite easy to speak. He was 
even under the impression that he had shouted: 

“Who is here?” 

From the shadow of the room (he recognized at once the 
characteristic outlines of the bulky shape) Mills advanced 
to the side of the bed. Dona Rita had telegraphed to 
him on the day of the duel and the man of books, leaving 
his retreat, had come as fast as boats and trains could 
carry him South. For, as he said later to Monsieur’ 
George, he had become fully awake to his part of responsi- 
bility. And he added: “It was not of you alone that I 
was thinking.” But the very first question that Monsieur 
George put to him was : 

“How long is it since I saw you last?” 

“Something like ten months,” answered Mills’ kindly 
voice. 

“Ah! Is Therese outside the door? She stood there 
all night, you know.” 

“Yes, I heard of it. She is hundreds of miles away now.” 

“Well, then, ask Rita to come in.” 

“I can’t do that, my dear boy,” said Mills with affec- 
tionate gentleness. He hesitated a moment. “Dofia 
Rita went away yesterday,” he said softly 


383 


THE ARROW OP GOLD, 

“Went away? Why?” asked Monsieur George. 

“Because, I am thankful to say, your life is no longer 
in danger. And I have told you that she is gone because, 
strange as it may seem, I believe you can stand this 
news better now than later when you get stronger.” 

It must be believed that Mills was right. Monsieur 
George fell asleep before he could feel any pang at that 
intelligence. A sort of confused surprise was in his mind 
but nothing else, and then his eyes closed. The awakening 
was another matter. But that, too. Mills had foreseen. 
For days he attended the bedside patiently letting the 
man in the bed talk to him of Dona Rita but saying little 
himself; till one day he was asked pointedly whether 
she had ever talked to him openly. And then he said 
that she had, on more than one occasion. “She told me 
amongst other things,” Mills said, “if this is any satisfac- 
tion to you to know, that till she met you she knew noth- 
ing of love. That you were to her in more senses than 
one a complete revelation.” 

“And then she went away. Ran away from the revela- 
tion,” said the man in the bed bitterly. 

“What’s the good of being angry?” remonstrated Mills, 
gently. “You know that this world is not a world for 
lovers, not even for such lovers as you two who have noth- 
ing to do with the world as it is. No, a world of lovers 
would be impossible. It would be a mere ruin of lives 
which seem to be meant for something else. What this 
something is, I don’t know; and I am certain,” he said 
with playful compassion, “that she and you will never 
find out.” 

A few days later they were again talking of Doha 
Rita. Mills said: 


384 


THE ARROW OF GOLD 


“Before she left the house she gave me that arrow she 
used to wear in her hair to hand over to you as a keepsake 
and also to prevent you, she said, from dreaming of her. 
This message sounds rather cryptic.” 

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” said Monsieur George. 
“Don’t give me the thing now. Leave it somewhere 
where I can find it some day when"! am alone. But when 
you write to her you may tell her that now at last — surer 
than Mr. Blunt’s bullet — the arrow has found its mark. 
There will be no more dreaming. Tell her. She will 
understand.” 

“I don’t even know where she is,” murmured Mills. 

“No, but her man of affairs knows. . . . Tell me, 

Mills, what will become of her.f*” 

“She will be wasted,” said Mills sadly. “She is a most 
unfortunate creature. Not even poverty could save her 
now. She cannot go back to her goats. Yet who can tell? 
She may find something in life. She may! It won’t be 
love. She has sacrificed that chance to the integrity of 
your life — heroically. Do you remember telling her 
once that you meant to live your life integrally — oh, you 
lawless, young pedant! Well, she is gone; but you may 
be sure that whatever she finds now in life it will not be 
peace. You understand me? Not even in a convent.” 

“She was supremely lovable,” said the wounded man, 
speaking of her as if she were lying dead already on his 
oppressed heart. 

“And elusive,” struck in Mills in a low voice. “Some 
of them are like that. She will never change. Amid all 
the shames and shadows of that life there will always 
lie the ray of her perfect honesty. I don’t know about 
your honesty, but yours will be the easier lot. You will 


THE ARROW OF GOLD m 

always have your . . . other love — you pig-headed 
enthusiast of the sea.” 

“Then let me go to it,” cried the enthusiast. “Let me 
go to it.” 

He went to it as soon as he had strength enough to feci 
the crushing weight of his loss (or his gain) fully, and 
discovered that he could bear it without flinching. After 
this discovery he was fit to face anything. He tells his 
correspondent that if he had been more romantic he would 
never have looked at any other woman. But on the 
contrary. No face worthy of attention escaped him. He 
looked at them all; and each reminded him of Dofia Rita, 
either by some profoimd resemblance or by the startling 
force of contrast. 

The faithful austerity of the sea protected him from the 
rumours that fly on the tongues of men. He never heard 
of her. Even the echoes of the sale of the great Allegre 
collection failed to reach him. And that event must have 
made noise enough in the world. But he never heard. 
He does not know. Then, years later, he was deprived 
even of the arrow. It was lost to him in a stormy catas- 
trophe; and he confesses that next day he stood on a 
rocky, wind-assaulted shore, looking at the seas raging 
over the very spot of his loss and thought that it was well. 
It was not a thing that one could leave behind one for 
strange hands — for the cold eyes of ignorance. Like 
the old King of Thule with the gold goblet of his mistress 
he would have had to cast it into the sea, before he died. 
He says he smiled at the romantic notion. But what 
else could he have done with it? 


TEB END 


THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS 
GARDEN CITY. N. Y. 


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